Selected Works Of Stephen Vincent Benet Vol 2

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SELECTED WORKS OF

Stephen Vincent Benet

• • •

VOLUME TWO: PROSE

SELECTED WORKS OF

Stephen Vincent

VOLUME TWO
PROSE

New York

Farrar & Rinehart, Inc.
1942

^^^

COPYRIGHT, 1942, BY STEPHEN VINCENT BENET

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The works included in this volume are covered by separate copyrights,
AS stated below:

VOLUME TWO

STORIES OF AMERICAN HISTORY

Jacob and the Indians, Copyright, 1938, by Stephen Vincent Benet

A Tooth for Paul Revere, Copyright, 1937, by Stephen Vincent Benet

The Devil and Daniel Webster, Copyright, 1936, by Stephen Vincent Benet

Freedom's a Hard-Bought Thing, Copyright, 1940, by Stephen Vincent Benet

O'Halloran's Luck, Copyright, 1938, by Stephen Vincent Benet

The Die-Hard, Copyright, 1938, by Stephen Vincent Benet

Johnny Pye and the Fool-Killer, Copyright, 1937, by Stephen Vincent Benet

Spanish Bayonet, Copyright, 1926, by Stephen Vincent Benet

TALES OF OUR TIME

Too Early Spring, Copyright, 1933, by The Butterick Company

The Story About the Anteater, Copyright, 1928, by Stephen Vincent Benet

Schooner Fairchild's Class, Copyright, 1938, by Stephen Vincent Benet

Everybody Was Very Nice, Copyright, 1936, by Stephen Vincent Benet

All Around the Town, Copyright, 1940, by Stephen Vincent Benet

Glamour, Copyright, 1932, by The Butterick Company

No Visitors, Copyright, 1940, by Stephen Vincent Benet

A Death in the Country, Copyright, 1932, by Stephen Vincent Bene"t

FANTASIES AND PROPHECIES

The Curfew Tolls, Copyright, 1935, by Stephen Vincent Benet

The King of the Cats, Copyright, 1929, by Stephen Vincent Benet

Doc Mefihorn and the Pearly Gates, Copyright, 1938, by Stephen Vincent

Benet

The Last of the Legions, Copyright, 1937, by Stephen Vincent Bendt
The Blood of the Martyrs, Copyright, 1936, by Stephen Vincent Benet
Into Egypt, Copyright, 1939, by Stephen Vincent Benet J
By the Waters of Babylon, Copyright, 1937, by Stephen V/ncent Benet

CONTENTS VOLUME TWO

STORIES OF AMERICAN HISTORY

Jacob and the Indians 3

A Tooth for Paul Revere 17

The Devil and Daniel Webster 32

Freedom's a Hard-Bought Thing 46

O'Halloran's Luck 59

The Die-Hard 74

Johnny Pye and the Fool-Killer 90

SPANISH BAYONET 113

TALES OF OUR TIME

Too Early Spring 261

The Story About the Anteater 273

Schooner Fairchild's Class 286

Everybody Was Very Nice 301

All Around the Town 319

Glamour 330

No Visitors 346

A Death in the Country 359

FANTASIES AND PROPHECIES

The Curfew Tolls 383

The King of the Cats 398

Doc Mellhorn and the Pearly Gates 412

The Last of the Legions 430

The Blood of the Martyrs 444

Into Egypt 461

By the Waters of Babylon 471

STORIES OF AMERICAN. HISTORY

Stories of American History

JACOB AND THE INDIANS

IT GOES BACK to the early days—may God profit all who lived
then— and the ancestors.

Well, America, you understand, in those days was different.
It was a nice place, but you wouldn't believe it if you saw it
today. Without busses, without trains, without states, without
Presidents, nothing!

With nothing but colonists and Indians and wild woods all
over the country and wild animals to live in the wild woods.
Imagine such a place! In these days, you children don't even
think about it; you read about it in the schoolbooks, but what is
that? And I put in a call to my daughter, in California, and in
three minutes I am saying "Hello, Rosie," and there it is Rosie
and she is telling me about the weather, as if I wanted to knowl
But things were not always that way. I remember my own days,
and they were different. And in the times of my grandfather's
grandfather, they were different still. Listen to the story.

My grandfather's grandfather was Jacob Stein, and he came
from Rettelsheim, in Germany. To Philadelphia he came, an
orphan in a sailing ship, but not a common man. He had learning
—he had been to the chedar—he could have been a scholar among
the scholars. Well, that is the way things happen in this bad
world. There was a plague and a new grand duke— things are
always so. He would say little of it afterward— they had left his
teeth in his mouth, but he would say little of it. He did not have
to say— we are children of the Dispersion— we know a black day
when it comes.

Yet imagine— a young man with fine dreams and learning, a
scholar with a pale face and narrow shoulders, set down in those
early days in such a new country. Well, he must work, and he
did. It was very fine, his learning, but it did not fill his mouth. He

Stephen Vincent Benet

must carry a pack on his back and go from door to door with it.
That was no disgrace; it was so that many began. But it was not
expounding the Law, and at first he was very homesick. He
would sit in his room at night, with the one candle, and read the
preacher Koheleth, till the bitterness of the preacher rose in his
mouth. Myself, I am sure that Koheleth was a great preacher, but
if he had had a good wife he would have been a more cheerful
man. They had too many wives in those old days— it confused
them. But Jacob was young.

As for the new country where he had come, it was to him a
place of exile, large and frightening. He was glad to be out of the
ship, but, at first, that was all. And when he saw his first real
Indian in the street— well, that was a day! But the Indian, a tame
one, bought a ribbon from him by signs, and after that he felt
better. Nevertheless, it seemed to him at times that the straps
of the pack cut into his very soul, and he longed for the smell
of the chedar and the quiet streets of Rettelsheim and the good
smoked goose-breast pious housewives keep for the scholar. But
there is no going back— there is never any going back.

All the same, he was a polite young man, and a hardworking.
And soon he had a stroke of luck— or at first it seemed so. It
was from Simon Ettelsohn that he got the trinkets for his pack,
and one day he found Simon Ettelsohn arguing a point of the
Law with a friend, for Simon was a pious man and well thought
of in the Congregation Mikveh Israel. Our grandfather's grand-
father stood by very modestly at first— he had come to replenish
his pack and Simon was his employer. But finally his heart moved
within him, for both men were wrong, and he spoke and told
them where they erred. For half an hour he spoke, with his
pack still upon his shoulders, and never has a text been expounded
with more complexity, not even by the great Rcb Samuel. Till,
in the end, Simon Ettelsohn threw up his hands and called him a
young David and a candle of learning. Also, he allowed him a
more profitable route of trade. But, best of all, he invited young
Jacob to his house, and there Jacob ate well for the first time
since he had come to Philadelphia. Also he laid eyes upon Miriam
Ettelsohn for the first time, and she was Simon's youngest
daughter and a rose of Sharon.

After that, things went better for Jacob, for the protection of
the strong is like a rock and a well. But yet things did not go

Jacob and the Indians

altogether as he wished. For, at first, Simon Ettelsohn made much
of him, and there was stuffed fish and raisin wine for the young
scholar, though he was a peddler. But there is a look in a man's
eyes that says "H'm? Son-in-law?" and that look Jacob did not
see. He was modest— he did not expect to win the maiden over-
night, though he longed for her. But gradually it was borne in
upon him what he was in the Ettelsohn house—a young scholar
to be shown before Simon's friends, but a scholar whose learning
did not fill his mouth. He did not blame Simon for it, but it was
not what he had intended. He began to wonder if he would ever
get on in the world at all, and that is not good for any man.

Nevertheless, he could have borne it, and the aches and pains
of his love, had it not been for Meyer Kappelhuist. Now, there
was a pushing man! I speak no ill of anyone, not even of your
Aunt Cora, and she can keep the De Groot silver if she finds it
in her heart to do so; who lies down in the straw with a dog, gets
up with fleas. But this Meyer Kappelhuist! A big, red-faced fel-
low from Holland with shoulders the size of a barn door and red
hair on the backs of his hands. A big mouth for eating and drink-
ing and telling schnorrer stories— and he talked about the Kappel-
huists, in Holland, till you'd think they were made of gold. The
crane says, "I am really a peacock— at least on my mother's side."
And yet, a thriving man— that could not be denied. He had
started with a pack, like our grandfather's grandfather, and now
he was trading with the Indians and making money hand over
fist. It seemed to Jacob that he could never go to the Ettelsohn
house without meeting Meyer and hearing about those Indians.
And it dried the words in Jacob's mouth and made his heart burn.

For, no sooner would our grandfather's grandfather begin to
expound a text or a proverb, than he would see Meyer Kappel-
huist looking at the maiden. And when Jacob had finished his
expounding, and there should have been a silence, Meyer Kappel-
huist would take it upon himself to thank him, but always in a
tone that said: "The Law is the Law and the Prophets are the
Prophets, but prime beaver is also prime beaver, my little
scholar!" It took the pleasure from Jacob's learning and the joy
of the maiden from his heart. Then he would sit silent and burn-
ing, while Meyer told a great tale of Indians, slapping his hands
on his knees. And in the end he was always careiul to ask Jacob
how many needles and pins he had sold that day; and when

Stephen Vincent Benet

Jacob told him, he would smile and say very smoothly that all
things had small beginnings, till the maiden herself could not keep
from a little smile. Then, desperately, Jacob would rack his brains
for more interesting matter. He would tell of the wars of the
Maccabees and the glory of the Temple. But even as he told
them, he felt they were far away. Whereas Meyer and his
accursed Indians were there, and the maiden's eyes shone at his
words.

Finally he took his courage in both hands and went to Simon
Ettelsohn. It took much for him to do it, for he had not been
brought up to strive with men, but with words. But it seemed to
him now that everywhere he went he heard of nothing but
Meyer Kappelhuist and his trading with the Indians, till he
thought it would drive him mad. So he went to Simon Ettelsohn
in his shop.

"I am weary of this narrow trading in pins and needles,'* he
said, without more words.

Simon Ettelsohn looked at him keenly; for while he was an
ambitious man, he was kindly as well.

"Nu" he said. "A nice little trade you have and the people like
you. I myself started in with less. What would you have more?"

"I would have much more," said our grandfather's grandfather
stiffly. "I would have a wife and a home in this new country. But
how shall I keep a wife? On needles and pins?"

"Nz/, it has been done," said Simon Ettelsohn, smiling a little.
"You are a good boy, Jacob, and we take an interest in you.
Now, if it is a question of marriage, there are many worthy
maidens. Asher Levy, the baker, has a daughter. It is true that
she squints a little, but her heart is of gold." He folded his hands
and smiled.

"It is not of Asher Levy's daughter I am thinking," said Jacob,
taken aback. Simon Ettelsohn nodded his head and his face grew
grave.

"Afa, Jacob," he said. "I see what is in your heart. Well, you
are a good boy, Jacob, and a fine scholar. And if it were in the
old country, I am not saying. But here, I have one daughter
married to a Seixas and one to a Da Silva. You must see that
makes a difference." And he smiled the smile of a man well
pleased with his world.

Jacob and the Indians

"And if I were such a one as Meyer Kappelhuist?" said Jacob
bitterly.

"Now— well, that is a little different/' said Simon Ettelsohn
sensibly. "For Meyer trades with the Indians. It is true, he is a
little rough. But he will die a rich man."

"I will trade with the Indians too," said Jacob, and trembled.

Simon Ettelsohn looked at him as if he had gone out of his
mind. He looked at his narrow shoulders and his scholar's hands.

"Now, Jacob," he said soothingly, "do not be foolish. A scholar
you are, and learned, not an Indian trader. Perhaps in a store you
would do better. I can speak to Aaron Copras. And sooner or
later we will find you a nice maiden. But to trade with Indians-
well, that takes a different sort of man. Leave that to Meyer
Kappelhuist."

"And your daughter, that rose of Sharon? Shall I leave her,
too, to Meyer Kappelhuist?" cried Jacob.

Simon Ettelsohn looked uncomfortable.

"Afo, Jacob," he said. "Well, it is not settled, of course. But—"

"I will go forth against him as David went against Goliath,"
said our grandfather's grandfather wildly. "I will go forth into
the wilderness. And God should judge the better man!"

Then he flung his pack on the floor and strode from the shop.
Simon Ettelsohn called out after him, but he did not stop for
that. Nor was it in his heart to go and seek the maiden. Instead,
when he was in the street, he counted the money he had. It was
not much. He had meant to buy his trading goods on credit from
Simon Ettelsohn, but now he could not do that. He stood in the
sunlit street of Philadelphia, like a man bereft of hope.

Nevertheless, he was stubborn— though how stubborn he did
not yet know. And though he was bereft of hope, he found his
feet taking him to the house of Raphael Sanchez.

Now, Raphael Sanchez could have bought and sold Simon
Ettelsohn twice over. An arrogant old man he was, with fierce
black eyes and a beard that was whiter than snow. He lived apart,
in his big house with his granddaughter, and men said he was
very learned, but also very disdainful, and that to him a Jew
was not a Jew who did not come of the pure sephardic strain.

Jacob had seen him, in the Congregation Mikveh Israel, and to
Jacob he had looked like an eagle, and fierce as an eagle. Yet

Stephen Vincent Benet

now, in his need, he found himself knocking at that man's door.

It was Raphael Sanchez himself who opened. "And what is
for sale today, peddler?" he said, looking scornfully at Jacob's
jacket where the pack straps had worn it.

"A scholar of the Law is for sale," said Jacob in his bitterness,
and he did not speak in the tongue he had learned in this country,
but in Hebrew.

The old man stared at him a moment.

"Now am I rebuked," he said. "For you have the tongue. Enter,
my guest," and Jacob touched the scroll by the doorpost and
went in.

They shared the noon meal at Raphael Sanchez's table. It was
made of dark, glowing mahogany, and the light sank into it as
sunlight sinks into a pool. There were many precious things in
that room, but Jacob had no eyes for them. When the meal was
over and the blessing said, he opened his heart and spoke, and
Raphael Sanchez listened, stroking his beard with one hand.
When the young man had finished, he spoke.

"So, Scholar," he said, though mildly, "you have crossed an
ocean that you might live and not die, and yet all you see is a
girl's face."

"Did not Jacob serve seven years for Rachel?" said our grand-
father's grandfather.

"Twice seven, Scholar," said Raphael Sanchez dryly, "but that
was in the blessed days." He stroked his beard again. "Do you
know why I came to this country?" he said.

"No," said Jacob Stein.

"It was not for the trading," said Raphael Sanchez. "My house
has lent money to kings. A little fish, a few furs— what are they
to my house? No, it was for the promise— the promise of Penn—
that this land should be an habitation and a refuge, not only for
the Gentiles. Well, we know Christian promises. But so far, it
has been kept. Are you spat upon in the street here, Scholar of
the Law?"

"No," said Jacob. "They call me Jew, now and then. But the
Friends, though Gentile, are kind."

"It is not so in all countries," said Raphael Sanchez, with a
terrible smile.

"No," said Jacob quietly, "it is not."

The old man nodded. "Yes, one does not forget that," he

8

Jacob and the Indians

said. "The spittle wipes off the cloth, but one does not forget.
One does not forget the persecutor or the persecuted. That is
why they think me mad, in the Congregation Mikveh Israel,
when I speak what is in my mind. For, look you"— and he pulled
a map from a drawer— "here is what we know of these colonies,
and here and here our people make a new beginning, in another
air. But here is New France—see it?— and down the great river
come the French traders and their Indians."

"Well?" said Jacob in puzzlement.

"Well?" said Raphael Sanchez. "Are you blind? I do not trust
the King of France— the king before him drove out the Hugue-
nots, and who knows what he may do? And if they hold the
great rivers against us, we shall never go westward."

"We?" said Jacob in bewilderment.

"We," said Raphael Sanchez. He struck his hand on the map.
"Oh, they cannot see it in Europe— not even their lords in parlia-
ment and their ministers of state," he said. "They think this is a
mine, to be worked as the Spaniard? worked Potosi, but it is not
a mine. It is something beginning to live, and it is faceless and
nameless yet. But it is our lot to be part of it— remember that in
the wilderness, my young scholar of the Law. You think you
are going there for a girl's face, and that is well enough. But
you may find something there you did not expect to find."

He paused and his eyes had a different look.

"You see, it is the trader first," he said. "Always the trader,
before the settled man. The Gentiles will forget that, and some
of our own folk too. But one pays for the land of Canaan; one
pays in blood and sweat."

Then he told Jacob what he would do for him and dismissed
him, and Jacob went home to his room with his head buzzing
strangely. For at times it seemed to him that the Congregation
Mikveh Israel was right in thinking Raphael Sanchez half mad.
And at other times it seemed to him that the old man's words
were a veil, and behind them moved and stirred some huge and
unguessed shape. But chiefly he thought of the rosy cheeks of
Miriam Ettelsohn.

It was with the Scotchman, McCampbell, that Jacob made his
first trading journey. A strange man Was McCampbell, with
grim features and cold blue eyes, but strong and kindly, though
silent, except when he talked of the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel.

Stephen Vincent Benet

For it was his contention that they were the Indians beyond the
Western Mountains, and on this subject he would talk endlessly.

Indeed, they had much profitable conversation, McCampbell
quoting the doctrines of a rabbi called John Calvin, and our
grandfather's grandfather replying with Talmud and Torah till
McCampbell would almost weep that such a honey-mouthed
scholar should be destined to eternal damnation. Yet he did not
treat our grandfather's grandfather as one destined to eternal
damnation, but as a man, and he, too, spoke of cities of refuge
as a man speaks of realities, for his people had also been per-
secuted.

First they left the city behind them, and then the outlying
towns and, soon enough, they were in the wilderness. It was
very strange to Jacob Stein. At first he would wake at night and
lie awake listening, while his heart pounded, and each rustle in
the forest was the step of a wild Indian, and each screech of an
owl in the forest the whoop before the attack. But gradually
this passed. He began to notice how silently the big man, Mc-
Campbell, moved in the woods; he began to imitate him. He
began to learn many things that even a scholar of the Law, for
all his wisdom, does not know— the girthing of a packsaddle and
the making of fires, the look of dawn in the forest and the look
of evening. It was all very new to him, and sometimes he thought
he would die of it, for his flesh weakened. Yet always he kept on.

When he saw his first Indians— in the woods, not in the town
—his knees knocked together. They were there as he had dreamt
of them in dreams, and he thought of the spirit, Iggereth-beth-
Mathlan, and her seventy-eight dancing demons, for they were
painted and in skins. But he could not let his knees knock to-
gether, before heathens and a Gentile, and the first fear passed.
Then he found they were grave men, very ceremonious and
silent at first, and then when the silence had been broken, full of
curiosity. They knew McCampbell, but him they did not know,
and they discussed him and his garments with the frankness of
children, till Jacob felt naked before them, and yet not afraid.
One of them pointed to the bag that hung at Jacob's neck— the
bag in which, for safety's sake, he carried his phylactery— then
McCampbell said something and the brown hand dropped
quickly, but there was a buzz of talk.

Later on, McCampbell explained to him that they, too, wore

10

Jacob and the Indians

little bags of deerskin and inside them sacred objects— and they
thought, seeing his, that he must be a person or some note. It
made him wonder. It made him wonder more to eat deer meat
with them, by a fire.

It was a green world and a dark one that he had fallen in-
dark with the shadow of the forest, green with its green. Through
it ran trails and paths that were not yet roads or highways— that
did not have the dust and smell of the cities of men, but another
scent, another look. These paths Jacob noted carefully, making
a map, for that was one of the instructions of Raphael Sanchez.
It seemed a great labor and difficult and for no purpose; yet, as
he had promised, so he did. And as they sank deeper and deeper
into the depths of the forest, and he saw pleasant streams and
wide glades, untenanted but by the deer, strange thoughts came
over him. It seemed to him that the Germany he had left was
very small and crowded together; it seemed to him that he had
not known there was so much width to the world.

Now and then he would dream back— dream back to the quiet
fields around Rettelsheim and the red-brick houses of Philadelphia,
to the stuffed fish and the raisin wine, the chanting in the chedar
and the white twisted loaves of calm Sabbath, under the white
cloth. They would seem very close for the moment, then they
would seem very far away. He was eating deer's meat in a forest
and sleeping beside embers in the open night. It was so that
Israel must have slept in the wilderness. He had not thought of
it as so, but it was so.

Now and then he would look at his hands— they seemed tougher
and very brown, as if they did not belong to him any more.
Now and then he would catch a glimpse of his own face, as he
drank at a stream. He had a beard, but it was not the beard of a
scholar— it was wild and black. Moreover, he was dressed in skins,
now; it seemed strange to be dressed in skins at first, and then not
strange.

Now all this time, when he went to sleep at night, he would
think of Miriam Ettelsohn. But, queerly enough, the harder he
tried to summon up her face in his thoughts, the vaguer it be-
came.

He lost track of time— there was only his map and the trading
and the journey. Now it seemed to him that tney should surely
turn back, for their packs were full. He spoke of it to McCamp-

II

Stephen Vincent Benet

bell, but McCampbell shook his head. There was a light in
Scotchman's eyes now— a light that seemed strange to our grand-
father's grandfather— and he would pray long at night, sometimes
too loudly. So they came to the banks of the great river, brown
and great, and saw it, and the country beyond it, like a view
across Jordan. There was no end to that country— it stretched
to the limits of the sky and Jacob saw it with his eyes. He was
almost afraid at first, and then he was not afraid.

It was there that the strong man, McCampbell, fell sick, and
there that he died and was buried. Jacob buried him on a bluff
overlooking the river and faced the grave to the west. In his
death sickness, McCampbell raved of the Ten Lost Tribes again
and swore they were just across the river and he would go to
them. It took all Jacob's strength to hold him— if it had been at
the beginning of the journey, he would not have had the strength.
Then he turned back, for he, too, had seen a Promised Land, not
for his seed only, but for nations yet to come.

Nevertheless, he was taken by the Shawnees, in a season of
bitter cold, with his last horse dead. At first, when misfortune
began to fall upon him, he had wept for the loss of the horses
and the good beaver. But, when the Shawilees took him, he no
longer wept; for it seemed to him that he was no longer himself,
but a man he did not know.

He was not concerned when they tied him to the stake and
piled the wood around him, for it seemed to him still that it must
be happening to another man. Nevertheless he prayed, as was
fitting, chanting loudly; for Zion in the wilderness he prayed.
He could smell the smell of the chedar and hear the voices that he
knew— Reb Moses and Rcb Nathan, and through them the curi-
ous voice of Raphael Sanchez, speaking in riddles. Then the
smoke took him and he coughed. His throat was hot. He called
for drink, and though they could not understand his words, all
men know the sign of thirst, and they brought him a bowl filled.
He put it to his lips eagerly and dfank, but the stuff in the bowl
"was scorching hot and burned his mouth. Very angry then was
our grandfather's grandfather, and without so much as a cry he
took the bowl in both hands and flung it straight in the face of
the man who had brought it, scalding him. Then there was a cry
and a murmur from the Shawnees and, after some moments, he-
felt himself unbound and knew that he lived.

12

Jacob and the Indians

It was flinging the bowl at the man while yet he stood at the
stake that saved him, for there is an etiquette about such matters.
One does not burn a madman, among the Indians; and to the
Shawnees, Jacob's flinging the bowl proved that he was mad, for
a sane man would not have done so. Or so it was explained to
him later, though he was never quite sure that they had not been
playing cat-and-mouse with him, to test him. Also they were
much concerned by his chanting his death song in an unknown
tongue and by the phylactery that he had taken from its bag and
bound upon brow and arm for his death hour, for these they
thought strong medicine and uncertain. But in any case they r$-
leased him, though they would not give him back his beaver,
and that winter he passed in the lodges of the Shawnees, treated
sometimes like a servant and sometimes like a guest, but always
on the edge of peril. For he was strange to them, and they could
not quite make up their minds about him, though the man with
die scalded face had his own opinion, as Jacob could see.

Yet when the winter was milder and the hunting better than
it had been in some seasons, it was he who got the credit of it,
and the holy phylactery also; and by the end of the winter he
was talking to them of trade, though diffidently at first. Ah, our
grandfather's grandfather, selig, what woes he had! And yet it
was not all woe, for he learned much woodcraft from the
Shawnees and began to speak in their tongue.

Yet he did not trust them entirely; and when spring came and
he could travel, he escaped. He was no longer a scholar then,
but a hunter. He tried to think what day it was by the calendar,
but he could only remember the Bee Moon and the Berry Moon.
Yet when he thought of a feast he tried to keep it, and always he
prayed for Zion. But when he thought of Zion, it was not as he
had thought of it before— a white city set on a hill— but a great
and open landscape, ready for nations. He could not have said
why his thought had changed, but it had.

I shall not tell all, for who knows all? I shall not tell of the
trading post he found deserted and the hundred and forty French
louis in the dead man's money belt. I shall not tell of the half-
grown boy, McGillvray, that he found on the fringes of settle-
ment—the boy who was to be his partner in the days to come—
and how they traded again with the Shawnees and got much
beaver. Only this remains to be told, for this is true.

'3

Stephen Vincent Benet

It was a long time since he had even thought of Meyer Kappel-
huist—the big pushing man with red hairs on the backs of his
hands. But now they were turning back toward Philadelphia, he
and McGillvray, their packhorses and their beaver; and as the
paths began to grow familiar, old thoughts came into his mind.
Moreover, he would hear now and then, in the outposts of the
wilderness, of a red-haired trader. So when he met the man
himself, not thirty miles from Lancaster, he was not surprised.

Now, Meyer Kappelhuist had always seemed a big man to our
grandfather's grandfather. But he did not seem such a big man,
met in the wilderness by chance, and at that Jacob was amazed.
Yet the greater surprise was Meyer Kappelhuist's, for he stared
at our grandfather's grandfather long and puzzledly before he
cried out, "But it's the little scholar!" and clapped his hand on
his knee. Then they greeted each other civilly and Meyer Kap-
pelhuist drank liquor because of the meeting, but Jacob drank
nothing. For, all the time, they were talking, he could see Meyer
Kappelhuist's eyes fixed greedily upon his packs of beaver, and
he did not like that. Nor did he like the looks of the three tame
Indians who traveled with Meyer Kappelhuist and, though he
was a man of peace, he kept his hand on his arms, and the boyt
McGillvray, did the same.

Meyer Kappelhuist was anxious that they should travel on
together, but Jacob refused, for, as I say, he did not like the look
in the red-haired man's eyes. So he said he was taking another
road and left it at that.

"And the news you have of Simon Ettelsohn and his family-
it is good, no doubt, for I know you are close to them," said
Jacob, before they parted.

"Close to them?" said Meyer Kappelhuist, and he looked black
as thunder. Then he laughed a forced laugh. "Oh, I see them no
more," he said. "The old rascal has promised his daughter to a
cousin of the Seixas, a greeny, just come over, but rich, they say.
But to tell you the truth, I think we are well out of it, Scholar
—she was always a little too skinny for my taste," and he laughed
coarsely.

"She was a rose of Sharon and a lily of the valley," said Jacob
respectfully, and yet not with the pang he would have expected
at such news, though it made him more determined than ever
not to travel with Meyer Kappelhuist. And with that they parted

H

Jacob and tbe Indians

and Meyer Kappelhuist went his way. Then Jacob took a fork in
the trail that McGillvray knew of and that was as well for him.
For when he got to Lancaster, there was news of the killing of
a trader by the Indians who traveled with him; and when Jacob
asked for details, they showed him something dried on a willow
hoop. Jacob looked at the thing and saw the hairs upon it were
red.

"Sculped all right, but we got it back," said the frontiersman,
with satisfaction. "The red devil had it on him when we caught
him. Should have buried it, too, I guess, but we'd buried him
already and it didn't seem feasible. Thought I might take it to
Philadelphy, sometime— might make an impression on the gov-
ernor. Say, if you're going there, you might— after all, that's
where he come from. Be a sort of memento to his folks."

"And it might have been mine, if I had traveled with him,"
said Jacob. He stared at the thing again, and his heart rose against
touching it. Yet it was well the city people should know what
happened to men in the wilderness, and the price of blood. "Yes,
I will take it," he said.

Jacob stood before the door of Raphael Sanchez, in Philadel-
phia. He knocked at the door with his knuckles, and the old man
himself peered out at him.

"And what is your business with me, Frontiersman?" said the
old man, peering.

"The price of blood for a country," said Jacob Stein. He did
not raise his voice, but there was a note in it that had not been
there when he first knocked at Raphael Sanchez's door.

The old man stared at him soberly. "Enter, my son," he said at
last, and Jacob touched the scroll by the doorpost and went in.

He walked through the halls as a man walks in a dream. At
last he was sitting by the dark mahogany table. There was noth-
ing changed in the room— he wondered greatly that nothing in
it had changed.

"And what have you seen, my son?" said Raphael Sanchez.

"I have seen the land of Canaan, flowing with milk and honey,"
said Jacob, Scholar of the Law. "I have brought back grapes
from Eshcol, and other things that are terrible to behold," he
cried, and even as he cried he felt the sob rise in his throat. He
choked it down. "Also there are eighteen packs of prime beaver
at the warehouse and a boy named McGillvray, a Gentile, but

'5

Stephen Vincent Benet

very trusty," he said. "The beaver is very good and the boy under
my protection. And McCampbell died by the great river, but
he had seen the land and I think he rests well. The map is not
made as I would have it, but it shows new things. And we must
trade with the Shawnees. There are three posts to be established
—I have marked them on the map— and later, more. And beyond
the great river there is country that stretches to the end of the
world. That is where my friend McCampbell lies, with his face
turned west. But what is the use of talking? You would not
understand."

He put his head on his arms, for the room was too quiet and
peaceful, and he was very tired. Raphael Sanchez moved around
the table and touched him on the shoulder.

"Did I not say, my son, that there was more than a girl's face
to be found in the wilderness?" he said.

"A girl's face?" said Jacob. "Why, she is to be married and,
I hope, will be happy, for she was a rose of Sharon. But what
are girls' faces beside this?" and he flung something on the table.
It rattled dryly on the table, like a cast snakeskin, but the hairs
upon it were red.

"It was Meyer Kappelhuist," said Jacob childishly, "and he was
a strong man. And I am not strong, but a scholar. But I have
seen what I have seen. And we must say Kaddish for him."

"Yes, yes," said Raphael Sanchez. "It will be done. I will see
to it."

"But you do not understand," said Jacob. "I have eaten deer's
meat in the wilderness and forgotten the month and the year.
I have been a servant to the heathen and held the scalp of my
enemy in my hand. I will never be the same man."

"Oh, you will be the same," said Sanchez. "And no worse a
scholar, perhaps. But this is a new country."

"It must be for all," said Jacob. "For my friend McCampbell
died also, and he was a Gentile."

"Let us hope," said Raphael Sanchez and touched him again
upon the shoulder. Then Jacob lifted his head and he saw that
the light had declined and the evening was upon him. And even
as he looked, Raphael Sanchez's granddaughter came in to light
the candles for Sabbath. And Jacob looked upon her, and she
was a dove, with dove's eyes.

16

A TOOTH FOR PAUL REVERE

Some say it all happened because of Hancock and Adams (saia
the old man, pulling at his pipe), and some put it back to the
Stamp Act and before. Then there's some hold out for Paul
Revere and his little silver box. But the way I heard it, it broke
loose because of Lige Butterwick and his tooth.

What's that? Why, the American Revolution, of course. What
else would I be talking about? Well, your story about the land
down South that they had to plough with alligators reminded me.

No, this is a true story— or at least that's how I heard it told.
My great-aunt was a Butterwick and I heard it from her. And,
every now and then, she'd write it out and want to get it put
in the history books. But they'd always put her off with some
trifling sort of excuse. Till, finally, she got her dander up and
wrote direct to the President of the United States. Well, no,
he didn't answer himself exactly— the President's apt to be a
pretty busy man. But the letter said he'd received her interesting
communication and thanked her for it, so that shows you. We've
got it framed, in the trailer— the ink's a little faded, but you can
make out the man's name who signed it. It's either Bowers or
Thorpe and he wrote a very nice hand.

You see, my great-aunt, she wasn't very respectful to the kind
of history that does get into the books. What she liked was the
queer corners of it and the tales that get handed down in families.
Take Paul Revere, for instance— all most folks think about, with
him, is his riding a horse. But when she talked about Paul Revere
—why, you could just see him in his shop, brewing the American
Revolution in a silver teapot and waiting for it to settle. Oh yes,
he was a silversmith by trade— but she claimed he was something
more. She claimed there was a kind of magic in that quick, skill-
ful hand of his— and that he was one of the kind of folks that can
see just a little bit farther into a millstone than most. But it was
when she got to Lige Butterwick that she really turned herself
loose.

For she claimed that it took all sorts to make a country— and
that meant the dumb ones, too. I don't mean ijits or nincompoops
—just the ordinary folks that live along from day to day. And

'7

Stephen Vincent Benet

that day may be a notable day in history —but it's just Tuesday
to them, till they read all about it in the papers. Oh, the heroes
and the great men— they can plan and contrive and see ahead. But
it isn't till the Lige Butterwicks get stirred up that things really
start to happen. Or so she claimed. And the way that they do get
stirred up is often curious, as she'd tell this story to prove.

For, now you take Lige Butterwick— and, before his tooth
started aching, he was just like you and me. He lived on a farm
about eight miles from Lexington, Massachusetts, and he was a
peaceable man. It was troubled times in the American colonies,
what with British warships in Boston Harbor and British soldiers
in Boston and Sons of Liberty hooting the British soldiers— not
to speak of Boston tea parties and such. But Lige Butterwick, he
worked his farm and didn't pay much attention. There's lots of
people like that, even in troubled times.

When he went into town, to be sure, there was high talk at
the tavern. But he bought his goods and 'came home again— he had
ideas about politics, but he didn't talk about them much. He had
a good farm and it kept him busy— he had a wife and five chil-
dren and they kept him humping. The young folks could argue
about King George and Sam Adams— he wondered how the corn
was going to stand that year. Now and then, if somebody said
that this and that was a burning shame, he'd allow as how it might
be, just to be neighborly. But, inside, he was wondering whether
next year he mightn't make an experiment and plant the west
field in rye.

Well, everything went along for him the way that it does for
most folks with good years and bad years, till one April morning,
in 1775, he woke up with a toothache. Being the kind of man he
was, he didn't pay much attention to it at first. But he men-
tioned it that evening, at supper, and his wife got a bag of hot
salt for him. He held it to his face and it seemed to ease him,
but he couldn't hold it there all night, and, next morning, the
tooth hurt worse than ever.

Well, he stood it the next day and the next, but it didn't
improve any. He tried tansy tea and other remedies— he tried
tying a string to it and having his wife slam the door. But, when
it came to the pinch, he couldn't quite do it. So, finally, he took
the horse and rode into Lexington town to have it seen to. Mrs.
Butterwick made him— she said it might be an expense, but any-

18

A Tooth for Paul Revere

thing was better than having him act as if he wanted to kick the
cat across tne room every time she put her feet down hard.

When he got into Lexington, he noticed that folks there
seemed kind of excited. There was a lot of talk about muskets
and powder and a couple of men called Hancock and Adams
who were staying at Parson Clarke's, But Lige Butterwick had his
own business to attend to— and, besides, his tooth was jumping
so he wasn't in any mood for conversation. He set off for the
local barber's, as being the likeliest man he knew to pull a tooth.

The barber took one look at it and shook his head.

"I can pull her, Lige," he said. "Oh, I can pull her, all right.
But she's got long roots and strong roots and she's going to
leave an awful gap when she's gone. Now, what you really
need," he said, kind of excited, for he was one of those perky
little men who's always interested in the latest notion, "what
you really need— though it's taking away my business— is one
of these-herc artificial teeth to go in the hole."

"Artificial teeth!" said Lige. "It's flying in the face of Nature!"

The barber shook his head. "No, Lige," he said, "that's where
you're wrong. Artificial teeth is all the go these days, and Lexing-
ton ought to keep up with the times. It would do me good to see
you with an artificial tooth— it would so."

"Well, it might do you good," said Lige, rather crossly, for his
tooth was jumping, "but, supposing I did want one— how in tunket
will I get one in Lexington?"

"Now you just leave that to me," said the barber, all excited,
and he started to rummage around. "You'll have to go to Boston
for it, but I know just the man." He was one of those men who
can always tell you where to go and it's usually wrong. "See
here," he went on. "There's a fellow called Revere in Boston
that fixes them and they say he's a boss workman. Just take a
look at this prospectus"— and he started to read from a paper:
" Whereas many persons are so unfortunate as to lose their fore-
teeth'—that's you, Lige— 'to their great detriment, not only in
looks but in speaking, both in public and private, this is to inform
all such that they may have them replaced by artificial ones'— see?
— 'that look as well as the natural and answer the end of speak-
ing to all intents'— and then he's got his name— Paul Revere, gold-
smith, near the head of Dr. Clarke's wharf, Boston."

"Sounds well enough," said Lige, "but what's it going to cost?"

19

Stephen Vincent Eenet

"Oh, I know Revere," said the barber, swelling up like a robin.
"Comes through here pretty often, as a matter of fact. And he's
a decent fellow, if he is a pretty big bug in the Sons of Liberty.
You just mention my name."

"Well, it's something I hadn't thought of," said Lige, as his
tooth gave another red-hot jounce, "but in for a penny, in for
a pound. I've missed a day's work already and that tooth's got
to come out before I go stark, staring mad. But what sort of man
is this Revere, anyway?"

"Oh, he's a regular wizard!" said the barber. "A regular wiz-
ard with his tools."

"Wizard!" said Lige. "Well, I don't know about wizards. But
if he can fix my tooth I'll call him one."

"You'll never regret it," said the barber— and that's the way
folks always talk when they're sending someone else to the den-
tist. So Lige Butterwick got on his horse again and started out
for Boston. A couple of people shouted at him as he rode down
the street, but he didn't pay any attention. And, going by Par-
son Clarke's, he caught a glimpse of two men talking in the
Parson's front room. One was a tallish, handsomish man in pretty
fine clothes and the other was shorter and untidy, with a kind
of bulldog face. But they were strangers to him and he didn't
really notice them— just rode ahead.

II

But as soon as he got into Boston he started to feel queer—and
it wasn't only his tooth. He hadn't been there in four years and
he'd expected to find it changed, but it wasn't that. It was a
clear enough day and yet he kept feeling there was thunder in
the air. There'd be knots of people, talking and arguing, on
street corners, and then, when you got closer to them, they'd
kind of melt away. Or, if they stayed, they'd look at you, out
of the corners of their eyes. And there, in the Port of Boston,
were the British warships, black and grim. He'd known they'd
be there, of course, but it was different, seeing them. It made
him feel queer to see their guns pointed at the town. He'd known
there was trouble and dispute, in Boston, but the knowledge
had passed ovei? him like rain and hail. But now here he was in

20

A Tooth for Paul Revere

the middle of it— and it smelt like earthquake weather. He
couldn't make head or tail of it, but he wanted to be home.

All the same, he'd come to get his tooth fixed, and, being New
England, he was bound to do it. But first he stopped at a tavern
for a bite and a sup, for it was long past his dinnertime. And
there, it seemed to him, things got even more curious.

"Nice weather we're having, these days," he said, in a friendly
way, to the barkeep.

"It's bitter weather for Boston," said the barkeep, in an un-
friendly voice, and a sort of low growl went up from the boys
at the back of the room and every eye fixed on Lige.

Well, that didn't help the toothache any, but, being a sociable
person, Lige kept on.

"May be, for Boston," he said, "but out in the country we'd
call it good planting weather."

The barkeep stared at him hard.

"I guess I was mistaken in you," he said. "It 15 good planting
weather— for some kinds of trees."

"And what kind of trees were you thinking of?" said a sharp-
faced man at Lige's left and squeezed his shoulder.

"There's trees and trees, you know," said a red-faced man at
Lige's right, and gave him a dig in the ribs.

tvWell, now that you ask me—" said Lige, but he couldn't even
finish before the red-faced man dug him hard in the ribs again.

"The liberty tree!" said the red-faced man. "And may it soon
be watered in the blood of tyrants!"

"The royal oak of England!" said the sharp-faced man. "And
God save King George and loyalty!"

Well, with that it seemed to Lige Butterwick as if the whole
tavern kind of riz up at him. He was kicked and pummeled and
mauled and thrown into a corner and yanked out of it again,
with the red-faced man and the sharp-faced man and all the
rest of them dancing quadrilles over his prostrate form. Till,
finally, he found himself out in the street with half his coat gone
galley-west.

"Well," said Lige to himself, "I always heard city folks were
crazy. But politics must be getting serious in these American
colonies when they start fighting about trees!"

Then he saw the sharp-faced man was beside him, trying to

21

Stephen Vincent Benet

shake his hand. He noticed with some pleasure that the sharp-
faced man had the beginnings of a beautiful black eye.

"Nobly done, friend," said the sharp-faced man, "and I'm glad
to find another true-hearted loyalist in this pestilent, rebellious
city."

"Well, I don't know as I quite agree with you about that,"
said Lige. "But I came here to get my tooth fixed, not to talk
politics. And as long as youVe spoken so pleasant, I wonder if
you could help me out. You see, I'm from Lexington way—
and I'm looking for a fellow named Paul Revere—"

"Paul Revere!" said the sharp-faced man, as if the name hit
him like a bullet. Then he began to smile again— not a pleasant
smile.

"Oh, it's Paul Revere you want, my worthy and ingenuous
friend from the country," he said. "Well, I'll tell you how to
find him. You go up to the first British soldier you see and ask
the way. But you better give the password first."

"Password?" said Lige Butterwick, scratching his ear.

"Yes," said the sharp-faced man, and his smile got wider.
"You say to that British soldier, 'Any lobsters for sale today?'
Then you ask about Revere."

"But why do I talk about lobsters first?" said Lige Butterwick,
kind of stubborn.

"Well, you see," said the sharp-faced man, "the British soldiers
wear red coats. So they like being asked about lobsters. Try it
and see." And he went away, with his shoulders shaking.

Well, that seemed queer to Lige Butterwick, but no queerer
than the other things that had happened that day. All the same,
he didn't quite trust the sharp-faced man, so he took care not
to come too close to the British patrol when he asked them
about the lobsters. And it was lucky he did, for no sooner were
the words out of his mouth than the British soldiers took after
him and chased him clear down to the wharves before he could
get away. At that, he only managed it by hiding in an empty
tar-barrel, and when he got out he was certainly a sight for sore
eyes.

"Well, I guess that couldn't have been the right password,"
he said to himself, kind of grimly, as he tried to rub off some
of the tar. "All the same, I don't think soldiers ought to act like
that when you ask them a civil question. But, city folks or sol-

22

A Tooth for Paul Revere

diers, they can't make a fool out of me. I came here to get my
tooth fixed and get it fixed I will, if I have to surprise the whole
British Empire to do it."

And just then he saw a sign on a shop at the end of the wharf.
And, according to my great-aunt, this was what was on the
sign. It said "PAUL REVERE, SILVERSMITH" at the top, and then,
under it, in smaller letters, "Large and small bells cast to order,
engraving and printing done in job lots, artificial teeth sculptured
and copper boilers mended, all branches of goldsmith and silver-
smith work and revolutions put up to take out. Express Service,
Tuesdays and Fridays, to Lexington, Concord and Points West."

"Well," said Lige Butterwick, "kind of a Jack-of-all-trades.
Now maybe I can get my tooth fixed." And he marched up to the
door.

Ill

Paul Revere was behind the counter when Lige came in, turn-
ing a silver bowl over and over in his hands. A man of forty-odd
he was, with a quick, keen face and snapping eyes. He was wear-
ing Boston clothes, but there was a French look about him— for
his father was Apollos Rivoire from the island of Guernsey, and
good French Huguenot stock. They'd changed the name to
Revere when they crossed the water.

It wasn't such a big shop, but it had silver pieces in it that
people have paid thousands for, since. And the silver pieces
weren't all. There were prints and engravings of the Port of
Boston and caricatures of the British and all sorts of goldsmith
work, more than you could put a name to. It was a 'crowded
place, but shipshape. And Paul Revere moved about it, quick and
keen, with his eyes full of life and hot temper—the kind of man
who knows what he wants to do and does it the next minute.

There were quite a few customers there when Lige Butter-
wick first came in— so he sort of scrooged back in a corner and
waited his chance. For one thing, after the queer sign and the
barber's calling him a wizard, he wanted to be sure about this
fellow, Revere, and see what kind of customers came to his shop.

Well, there was a woman who wanted a christening mug for
a baby and a man who wanted a print of the Boston Massacre.
And then there was a fellow who passed Revere some sort of
message, under cover— Lige caught the whisper, "powder" and

Stephen Vincent Benet

"Sons of Liberty," though he couldn't make out the rest. And,
finally, there was a very fine silk-dressed lady who seemed to
be giving Revere considerable trouble. Lige peeked at her round
the corner of his chair, and, somehow or other, she reminded
him of a turkey-gobbler, especially the strut.

She was complaining about some silver that Paul Revere had
made for her— expensive silver it must have been. And "Oh,
Master Revere, Fm so disappointed!" she was saying. "When
I took the things from the box, I could just have cried!"

Revere drew himself up a little at that, Lige noticed, but his
voice was pleasant.

"It is I who am disappointed, madam," he said, with a little
bow. "But what was the trouble? It must have been carelessly
packed. Was it badly dented? I'll speak to my boy."

"Oh no, it wasn't dented," said the turkey-gobbler lady. "But
I wanted a really impressive silver service— something I can use
when the Governor comes to dinner with us. I certainly paid
for the best. And what have you given me?"

Lige waited to hear what Paul Revere would say. When he
spoke, his voice was stiff.

"I have given you the best work of which I am capable,
madam," he said. "It was in my hands for six months— and I
think they are skillful hands."

"Oh," said the woman, and rustled her skirts. "I know you're
a competent artisan, Master Revere—"

"Silversmith, if you please—" said Paul Revere, and the woman
rustled again.

"Well, I don't care what you call it," she said, and then you
could see her fine accent was put on like her fine clothes. "But
I know I wanted a real service— something I could show my
friends. And what have you given me? Oh, it's silver, if you
choose. But it's just as plain and simple as a picket fence!"

Revere looked at her for a moment and Lige Butterwick
thought he'd explode.

"Simple?" he said. "And plain? You pay me high compliments,
madam! "

"Compliments indeed!" said the woman, and now she was get-
ting furious. "I'm sending it back tomorrow! Why, there isn't
as much as a lion or a unicorn on the cream jug. And I told you
I wanted the sugar bowl covered with silver grapes! But you've

A Tooth for Paul Revere

given me something as bare as the hills of New England! And
I won't stand it, I tell you! I'll send to England instead."

Revere puffed his cheeks and blew, but his eyes were dan-
gerous.

"Send away, madam," he said. "We're making new things in
this country— new men— new silver— perhaps, who knows, a new
nation. Plain, simple, bare as the hills and rocks of New Eng-
land—graceful as the boughs of her elm trees— if my silver were
only like that indeed! But that is what I wish to make it. And,
as for you, madam,"— he stepped toward her like a cat,— "with
your lions and unicorns and grape leaves and your nonsense of
bad ornament done by bad silversmiths— your imported bad
taste and your imported British manners— puff!" And he blew
at her, just the way you blow at a turkey-gobbler, till she fairly
picked up her fine silk skirts and ran. Revere watched her out
of the door and turned back, shaking his head.

"William!" he called to the boy who helped him in the shop.
"Put up the shutters— we're closing for the day. And William—
no word yet from Dr. Warren?"

"Not yet, sir," said the boy, and started to put up the shutters.
Then Lige Butterwick thought it was about time to make his
presence known.

So he coughed, and Paul Revere whirled and Lige Butterwick
felt those quick, keen eyes boring into his. He wasn't exactly
afraid of them, for he was stubborn himself, but he knew this
was an unexpected kind of man.

"Well, my friend," said Revere, impatiently, "and who in the
world are you?"

"Well, Mr. Revere," said Lige Butterwick. "It is Mr. Revere,
isn't it? It's kind of a long story. But, closing or not, you've got
to listen to me. The barber told me so."

"The barber!" said Revere, kind of dumbfounded.

"Uh-huh," said Lige, and opened his mouth. "You see, it's my
tooth."

"Tooth!" said Revere, and stared at him as if they were both
crazy. "You'd better begin at the beginning. But wait a minute.
You don't talk like a Boston man. Where do you come from?"

"Oh, around Lexington way," said Lige. "And, you see—"

But the mention of Lexington seemed to throw Revere into a
regular excitement. He fairly shook Lige by the shoulders.

Stephen Vincent Benet

"Lexington!" he said. "Were you there this morning?"

"Of course I was," said Lige. "That's where the barber I told
you about— "

"Never mind the barber!" said Revere. "Were Mr. Hancock
and Mr. Adams still at Parson Clarke's?"

"Well, they might have been, for all I know," said Lige. "But
I couldn't say."

"Great heaven!" said Revere. "Is there a man in the American
colonies who doesn't know Mr. Hancock and Mr. Adams?"

"There seems to be me," said Lige. "But, speaking of strangers
—there was two of them staying at the parsonage, when I rode
past. One was a handsomish man and the other looked more like
a bulldog-"

"Hancock and Adams!" said Revere. "So they are still there."
He took a turn or two up and down the room. "And the British
ready to march!" he muttered to himself. "Did you see many
soldiers as you came to my shop, Mr. Butterwick?"

"See them?" said Lige. "They chased me into a tar-barrel. And
there was a whole passel of them up by the Common with guns
and flags. Looked as if they meant business."

Revere took his hand and pumped it up and down.

"Thank you, Mr. Butterwick," he said. "You're a shrewd ob-
server. And you have done me— and the colonies— an invaluable
service."

"Well, that's nice to know," said Lige. "But, speaking about
this tooth of mine—"

Revere looked at him and laughed, while his eyes crinkled.

"You're a stubborn man, Mr. Butterwick," he said. "All the
better. I like stubborn men. I wish we had more of them. Well,
one good turn deserves another-you've helped me and I'll do
my best to help you. I've made artificial teeth-but drawing them
is hardly my trade. All the same, I'll do what I can for you."

So Lige sat down in a chair and opened his mouth.

"Whew!" said Revere, with his eyes dancing. His voice grew
solemn. "Mr. Butterwick," he said, "it seems to be a compound,
agglutinated infraction of the upper molar. I'm afraid I can't do
anything about it tonight."

"But-" said Lige.

"But here's a draught-that will ease the pain for a while,"

26

A Tooth -for Paul Revere

said Revere, and poured some medicine into a cup. "Drink!" he
said, and Lige drank. The draught was red and spicy, with a
queer, sleepy taste, but pungent. It wasn't like anything Lige
had ever tasted before, but he noticed it eased the pain.

"There," said Revere. "And now you go to a tavern and get
a good night's rest. Come back to see me in the morning— I'll
find a tooth-drawer for you, if I'm here. And—oh yes— you'd
better have some liniment."

He started to rummage in a big cupboard at the back of the
shop. It was dark now, with the end of day and the shutters
up, and whether it was the tooth, or the tiredness, or the draught
Paul Revere had given him, Lige began to feel a little queer.
There was a humming in his head and a lightness in his feet.
He got up and stood looking over Paul Revere's shoulder, and
it seemed to him that things moved and scampered in that cup-
board in a curious way, as Revere's quick nngers took down
this box and that. And the shop was full of shadows and mur-
murings.

"It's a queer kind of shop you've got here, Mr. Revere," he
said, glad to hear the sound of his own voice.

"Well, some people think so," said Revere— and that time Lige
was almost sure he saw something move in the cupboard. He
coughed. "Say— what's in that little bottle?" he said, to keep his
mind steady.

"That?" said Paul Revere, with a smile, and held the bottle
up. "Oh, that's a little chemical experiment of mine. I call it
Essence of Boston. But there's a good deal of East Wind in it."

"Essence of Boston," said Lige, with his eyes bulging. "Well,
they did say you was a wizard. It's gen-u-wine magic, I sup-
pose?"

"Genuine magic, of course," said Revere, with a chuckle. "And
here's the box with your liniment. And here—"

He took down two little boxes— a silver and a pewter one—
and placed them on the counter. But Lige's eyes went to the sil-
ver one— they were drawn to it, though he couldn't have told
you why.

"Pick it up," said Paul Revere, and Lige did so and turned it
in his hands. It was a handsome box. He could make out a grow-
ing tree and an eagle fighting a lion. "It's mighty pretty work,"
he said.

Stephen Vincent Benet

"It's my own design," said Paul Revere. "See the stars around
the edge—thirteen ot them? You could make a very pretty de-
sign with stars— for a new country, say— if you wanted to— I've
sometimes thought of it.'7

"But what's in it?" said Lige.

"What's in it?" said Paul Revere, and his voice was light but
steely. "Why, what's in the air around us? Gunpowder and war
and the making of a new nation. But the time isn't quite ripe yet
—not quite ripe."

"You mean," said Lige, and he looked at the box very respect-
ful, "that this-here revolution folks keep talking about—"

"Yes," said Paul Revere, and he was about to go on. But just
then his boy ran in, with a letter in his hand.

"Master!" he said. "A message from Dr. Warren!"

IV

Well, with that Revere started moving, and, when he started
to move, he moved fast. He was calling for his riding boots in
one breath and telling Lige Butterwick to come back tomorrow
in another— and, what with all the bustle and confusion, Lige
Butterwick nearly went off without his liniment after all. But
he grabbed up a box from the counter, just as Revere was prac-
tically shoving him out of the door— and it wasn't till he'd got
to his tavern and gone to bed for the night that he found out
he'd taken the wrong box.

He found it out then because, when he went to bed, he couldn't
get to sleep. It wasn't his tooth that bothered him— that had
settled to a kind of dull ache and he could have slept through
that. But his mind kept going over all the events of the day—
the two folks he'd seen at Parson Clarke's and being chased by
the British and what Revere had said to the turkey-gobbler
woman— till he couldn't get any peace. He could feel some-
thing stirring in him, though he didn't know what it was.

" 'Tain't right to have soldiers chase a fellow down the street,"
he said to himself. "And 'tain't right to have people like that
woman run down New England. No, it ain't. Oh me— I better
look for that liniment of Mr. Revere's."

So he got up from his bed and went over and found his coat.

28

A Tooth for Paul Revere

Then he reached his hand in the pocket and pulled out the silver
box.

Well, at first he was so flustrated that he didn't know rightly
what to do. For here, as well as he could remember it, was gun-
powder and war and the makings of a new nation— the revolution
itself, shut up in a silver box by Paul Revere. He mightn't have
believed there could be such things before he came to Boston.
But now he did.

The draught was still humming in his head, and his legs felt
a mite wobbly. But, being human, he was curious. "Now, I won-
der what is inside that box," he said.

He shook the box and handled it, but that seemed to make it
warmer, as if there was something alive inside it, so he stopped
that mighty quick. Then he looked all over it for a keyhole, but
there wasn't any keyhole, and, if there had been, he didn't have
a key.

Then he put his ear to the box and listened hard. And it seemed
to him that he heard, very tiny and far away, inside the box,
the rolling fire of thousands of tiny muskets and the tiny, far-
away cheers of many men. "Hold your fire!" he heard a voice
say. "Don't fire till you're fired on— but, if they want a war, let it
begin here!" And then there was a rolling of drums and a squeal
of fifes. It was small, still, and far away, but it made him shake
all over, for he knew he was listening to something in the future
—and something that he didn't have a right to hear. He sat down
on the edge of his bed, with the box in his hands.

"Now, what am I going to do with this?" he said. "It's too big
a job for one man."

Well, he thought, kind of scared, of going down to the river
and throwing the box in, but, when he thought of doing it, he
knew he couldn't. Then he thought of his farm near Lexington
and the peaceful days. Once the revolution was out of the box,
there 'd be an end to that. But then he remembered what Revere
had said when he was talking with the woman about the silver—
the thing about building a new country and building it clean
and plain. "Why, I'm not a Britisher," he thought. "I'm a New
Englander. And maybe there's something beyond that— some-
thing people like Hancock and Adams know about. And, if it
has to come with a revolution— well, I guess it has to come. We
can't stay Britishers forever, here in this country."

Stephen Vincent Eenet

He listened to the box again, and now there wasn't any shoot-
ing in it— just a queer tune played on a fife. He didn't know the
name of the tune, but it lifted his heart.

He got up, sort of slow and heavy. "I guess I'll have to take
this back to Paul Revere," he said.

Well, the first place he went was Dr. Warren's, having heard
Revere mention it, but he didn't get much satisfaction there. It
took quite a while to convince them that he wasn't a spy, and,
when he did, all they'd tell him was that Revere had gone over
the river to Charlestown. So he went down to the waterfront
to look for a boat. And the first person he met was a very angry
woman.

"No," she said, "you don't get any boats from me. There was
a crazy man along here an hour ago and he wanted a boat, too,
and my husband was crazy enough to take him. And then, do you
know what he did?"

"No, mam," said Lige Butterwick.

"He made my husband take my best petticoat to muffle the
oars so they wouldn't make a splash when they went past that
Britisher ship," she said, pointing out where the man-of-war
Somerset lay at anchor. "My best petticoat, I tell you! And when
my husband comes back he'll get a piece of my mind!"

"Was his name Revere?" said Lige Butterwick. "Was he a
man of forty-odd, keen-looking and kind of Frenchy?"

"I don't know what his right name is," said the woman, "but
his name's mud with me. My best petticoat tore into strips and
swimming in that nasty river!" And that was all he could get
out of her.

All the same, he managed to get a boat at last— the story doesn't
say how— and row across the river. The tide was at young flood
and the moonlight bright on the water, and he passed under the
shadow of the Somerset, right where Revere had passed. When
he got to the Charlestown side, he could see the lanterns in
North Church, though he didn't know what they signified. Then
he told the folks at Charlestown he had news for Revere and
they got him a horse and so he started to ride. And, all the while,
the silver box was burning his pocket.

Well, he lost his way more or less^ as you well might in the
darkness, and it was dawn when he came into Lexington by a

30

A Tooth for Paul Revere

side road. The dawn in that country's pretty, with the dew still
on the grass. But he wasn't looking at the dawn. He was feeling
the box burn his pocket and thinking hard.

Then, all of a sudden, he reined up his tired horse. For there,
on the side road, were two men carrying a trunk—and one of
them was Paul Revere.

They looked at each other and Lige began to grin. For Revere
was just as dirty and mud-splashed as he was— he'd warned Han-
cock and Adams all right, but then, on his way to Concord, he'd
got caught by the British and turned loose again. So he'd gone
back to Lexington to see how things were there— and now he and
the other fellow were saving a trunk of papers that Hancock
had left behind, so they wouldn't fall into the hands of the
British.

Lige swung off his horse. "Well, Mr. Revere," he said, "you
see, I'm on time for that little appointment about my tooth. And,
by the way, I've got something for you." He took the box from
his pocket. And then he looked over toward Lexington Green
and caught his breath. For, on the Green, there was a little line
of Minute Men— neighbors of his, as he knew— and, in front of
them, the British regulars. And, even as he looked, there was
the sound of a gunshot, and, suddenly, smoke wrapped the front
of the British line and he heard them shout as they ran forward.

Lige Butterwick took the silver box and stamped on it with
his heel. And with that the box broke open—and there was a
dazzle in his eyes for a moment and a noise of men shouting—
and then it was gone.

uDo you know what you've done?" said Revere. "You've let
out the American Revolution!"

"Well," said Lige Butterwick, "I guess it was about time. And
I guess I'd better be going home, now. I've got a gun on the
wall there. And I'll need it."

"But what about your tooth?" said Paul Revere.

"Oh, a tooth's a tooth," said Lige Butterwick. "But a country's
a country. And, anyhow, it's stopped aching."

All the same, they say Paul Revere made a silver tooth for him,
after the war. But my great-aunt wasn't quite sure of it, so I
won't vouch for that.

31

THE DEVIL AND DANIEL WEBSTER

It's a story they tell in the border country, where Massachu-
setts joins Vermont and New Hampshire.

Yes, Dan'l Webster's dead— or, at least, they buried him.
But every time there's a thunderstorm around Marshfield, they
say you can hear his rolling voice in the hollows of the sky. And
they say that if you go to his grave and speak loud and clear,
"Dan'l Webster—Danl Webster! " the ground!! begin to shiver
and the trees begin to shake. And after a while you'll hear a
deep voice saying, "Neighbor, how stands the Union?" Then
you better answer the Union stands as she stood, rock-bottomed
and copper-sheathed, one and indivisible, or he's liable to rear
right out of the ground. At least, that's what I was told when I
was a youngster.

You see, for a while, he was the biggest man in the country.
He never got to be President, but he was the biggest man. There
were thousands that trusted in him right next to God Almighty,
and they told stories about him that were like the stories of
patriarchs and such. They said, when he stood up to speak, stars
and stripes came right out in the sky, and once he spoke against
a river and made it sink into the ground. They said, when he
walked the woods with his fishing rod, Killall, the trout would
jump out of the streams right into his pockets, for they knew it
was no use putting up a fight against him; and, when he argued a
case, he could turn on the harps of the blessed and the shaking
of the earth underground. That was the kind of man he was,
and his big farm up at Marshfield was suitable to him. The chick-
ens he raised were all white meat down through the drumsticks,
the cows were tended like children, and the big ram he called
Goliath had horns with a curl like a morning-glory vine and
could butt through an iron door. But Dan'l wasn't one of your
gentlemen farmers; he knew all the ways of the land, and he'd
be up by candlelight to see that the chores got done. A man
with a mouth like a mastiff, a brow like a mountain and eyes
like burning anthracite—that was Dan'l Webster in his prime.
And the biggest case he argued never got written down in the
books, for he argued it against the devil, nip and tuck and no
holds barred. And this is the way I used to hear it told.

The Devil and Daniel Webster

There was a man named Jabez Stone, lived at Cross Corners,
New Hampshire. He wasn't a bad man to start with, but he
was an unlucky man. If he planted corn, he got borers; if he
slanted potatoes, he got blight. He had good-enough land, but
it didn't prosper him; he had a decent wife and children, but
che more children he had, the less there was to feed them. If
stones cropped up in his neighbor's field, boulders boiled up in
his; if he had a horse with the spavins, he'd trade it for one with
the staggers and give something extra. There's some folks bound
to be like that, apparently. But one day Jabez Stone got sick of
the whole business.

He'd been plowing that morning and he'd just broke the plow-
share on a rock that he could have sworn hadn't been there yes-
terday. And, as he stood looking at the plowshare, the off horsfe
began to cough— that ropy kind of cough that means sickness
and horse doctors. There were two children down with the
measles, his wife was ailing, and he had a whitlow on his thumb.
It was about the last straw for Jabez Stone. "I vow," he said,
and he looked around him kind of desperate— "I vow it's enough
to make a man want to sell his soul to the devil! And I would,
too, for two cents!"

Then he felt a kind of queerness come over him at having
said what he'd said; though, naturally, being a New Hampshire-
man, he wouldn't take it back. But, all the same, when it got to
be evening and, as far as he could sec, no notice had been taken,
he felt relieved in his mind, for he was a religious man. But
notice is always taken, sooner or later, just like the Good Book
says. And, sure enough, next day, about suppertime, a soft-
spoken, dark-dressed stranger drove up in a handsome buggy and
asked for Jabez Stone.

Well, Jabez told his family it was a lawyer, come to see him
about a legacy. But he knew who it was. He didn't like the looks
of the stranger, nor the way he smiled with his teeth. They were
white teeth, and plentiful— some say they were filed to a point,
but I wouldn't vouch for that. And he didn't like it when the
dog took one look at the stranger and ran away howling, with
his tail between his legs. But having passed his word, more or
less, he stuck to it, and they went out behind the barn and made
their bargain. Jabez Stone had to prick his finger to sign, and

33

Stephen Vincent Benh

the stranger lent him a silver pin. The wound healed clean, but
it left a little white scar.

After that, all of a sudden, things began to pick up and pros-
per for Jabez Stone. His cows got fat and his horses sleek, his
crops were the envy of the neighborhood, and lightning might
strike all over the valley, but it wouldn't strike his barn. Pretty
soon, he was one of the prosperous people of the county; they
asked him to stand for selectman, and he stood for it; there began
to be talk of running him for state senate. All in all, you might
say the Stone family was as happy and contented as cats in a
dairy. And so they were, except for Jabez Stone.

He'd been contented enough, the first few years. It's a great
thing when bad luck turns; it drives most other things out of
your head. True, every now and then, especially in rainy weather,
the little white scar on his finger would give him a twinge. And
once a year, punctual as clockwork, the stranger with the hand-
some buggy would come driving by. But the sixth year, the
stranger lighted, and, after that, his peace was over tor Jabez
Stone.

The stranger came up through the lower field, switching his
boots with a cane— they were handsome black boots, but Jabez
Stone never liked the look of them, particularly the toes. And,
after he'd passed the time of day, he said, "Well, Mr. Stone,
you're a hummer! It's a very pretty property you've got here,
Mr. Stone."

"Well, some might favor it and others might not," said Jabez
Stone, for he was a New Hampshireman.

"Oh, no need to decry your industry!" said the stranger, very
easy, showing his teeth in a smile. "After all, we know what's
been done, and it's been according to contract and specifications.
So when— ahem— the mortgage falls due next year, you shouldn't
have any regrets."

"Speaking of that mortgage, mister," said Jabez Stone, and he
looked around for help to the earth and the sky, "I'm beginning
to have one or two doubts about it."

"Doubts?" said the stranger, not quite so pleasantly.

"Why, yes," said Jabez Stone. "This being the U.S.A. and me
always having been a religious man." He cleared his throat and
got bolder. "Yes, sir," he said, "I'm beginning to have consider-
able doubts as to that mortgage holding in court."

34

The Devil and Daniel Webster

"There's courts and courts," said the stranger, clicking his
teeth. "Still, we might as well have a look at the original docu-
ment." And he hauled out a big black pocketbook, full of papers,
"Sherwin, Slater, Stevens, Stone," he muttered. "1, Jabez Stonev
for a term of seven years — Oh, it's quite in order, I think."

But Jabez Stone wasn't listening, for he saw something else
flutter out of the black pocketbook. It was something that looked
like a moth, but it wasn't a moth. And as Jabez Stone stared at
it, it seemed to speak to him in a small sort of piping voice, ter-
rible small and thin, but terrible human. "Neighbor Stone!" it
squeaked. "Neighbor Stone! Help me! For God's sake, help me!"
But before Jabez Stone could stir hand or foot, the stranger
whipped out a big bandanna handkerchief, caught the creature
in it, just like a butterfly, and started tying up the ends of the
bandanna.

"Sorry for the interruption," he said. "As I was saying — "
But Jabez Stone was shaking all over like a scared horse.
"That's Miser Stevens' voice!" he said, in a croak. "And you've
got him in your handkerchief!"

The stranger looked a little embarrassed.
"Yes, I really should have transferred him to the collecting
box," he said with a simper, "but there were some rather unusual
specimens there and I didn't want them crowded. Well, well,
these little contretemps will occur."

"I don't know what you mean by contemn," said Jabez Stone,
"but that was Miser Stevens' voice! And he ain't dead! You can't
tell me he is! He was just as spry and mean as a woodchuck,
Tuesday!"

"In the midst of life—" said the stranger, kind of pious. "Lis-
ten!" Then a bell began to toll in the valley and Jabez Stone
listened, with the sweat running down his face. For he knew
it was tolled for Miser Stevens and that he was dead.

"These *ong-standing accounts," said the stranger with a sigh;
"one really hates to close them. But business is business."

He stil^ had the bandanna in his hand, and Jabez Stone felt
sick as be saw the cloth struggle and flutter.

"Are they all as small as that?" he asked hoarsely.
"Small?" said the stranger. "Oh, I see what you mean. Why,
they vary." He measured Jabez Stone with nis eyes, and his
teeth showed. "Don't worry, Mr. Stone," he said. "You'll go with

35

Stephen Vincent Benet

a very good grade. I wouldn't trust you outside the collecting
box. Now, a man like Dan'l Webster, of course— well, we'd have
to build a special box for him, and even at that, I imagine the
wing spread would astonish you. But, in your case, as I was say-
ing— "

"Put that handkerchief away!" said Jabez Stone, and he began
to beg and to pray. But the best he could get at the end was a
three years' extension, with conditions.

But till you make a bargain like that, you've got no idea of
how fast four years can run. By the last months of those years,
Jabez Stone's known all over the state and there's talk of run-
ning him for governor— and it's dust and ashes in his mouth.
For every day, when he gets up, he thinks, "There's one more
night gone," and every night when he lies down, he thinks of
the black pocketbook and the soul of Miser Stevens, and it makes
him sick at heart. Till, finally, he can't bear it any longer, and,
in the last days of the last year, he hitches up his horse and
drives off to seek Dan'l Webster. For Dan'l v/as born in New
Hampshire, only a few miles from Cross Corners, and it's well
known that he has a particular soft spot for old neighbors.

It was early in the morning when he got to Marshfield, but
Dan'l was up already, talking Latin to the farm hands and
wrestling with the ram, Goliath, and trying out a new trotter
and working up speeches to make against John C. Calhoun. But
when he heard a New Hampshireman had come to see him, he
dropped everything else he was doing, for that was Dan'l's way.
He gave Jabez Stone a breakfast that five men couldn't eat, went
into the living history of every man and woman in Cross Cor-
ners, and finally asked him how he could serve him.

Jabez Stone allowed that it was a kind of mortgage case.

"Well, I haven't pleaded a mortgage case in a long time, and
I don't generally plead now, except before the Supreme Court,"
said Dan'l, "but if I can, I'll help you."

"Then I've got hope for the first time in ten years," said
Jabez Stone, and told him the details.

Dan'l walked up and down as he listened, hands behind his
back, now and then asking a question, now and then plunging
his eyes at the floor, as if they'd bore through it like gimlets.
When Jabez Stone had finished, Dan'l puffed out his cheeks and

16

The Devil and Daniel Webster

blew. Then he turned to Jabez Stone and a smile broke over
his face like the sunrise over Monadnock.

"You've certainly given yourself the devil's own row to hoe,
Neighbor Stone," he said, "but I'll take your case."

"You'll take it?" said Jabez Stone, hardly daring to believe.

"Yes," said Dan'l Webster. "I've got about seventy-five other
things to do and the Missouri Compromise to straighten out,
but I'll take your case. For if two New Hampshiremen aren't a
match for the devil, we might as well give the country back to
the Indians."

Then he shook Jabez Stone by the hand and said, "Did you
come down here in a hurry?"

"Well, I admit I made time," said Jabez Stone.

"You'll go back faster," said Dan'l Webster, and he told 'em
to hitch up Constitution and Constellation to the carriage. They
were matched grays with one white forefoot, and they stepped
like greased lightning.

Well, I won't describe how excited and pleased the whole
Stone family was to have the great Dan'l Webster for a guest,
when they finally got there. Jabez Stone had lost his hat on the
way, blown off when they overtook a wind, but he didn't take
much account of that. But after supper he sent the family off
to bed, for he had most particular business with Mr. Webster.
Mrs. Stone wanted them to sit in the front parlor, but Dan'l
Webster knew front parlors and said he preferred the kitchen.
So it was there they sat, waiting for the stranger, with a jug
on the table between them and a bright fire on the hearth— the
stranger being scheduled to show up on the stroke of midnight,
according to specifications.

Well, most men wouldn't have asked for better company than
Dan'l Webster and a jug. But with every tick of the clock Jabez
Stone got sadder and sadder. His eyes roved round, and though
he sampled the jug you could see he couldn't taste it. Finally,
on the stroke of 1 1 : 30 he reached over and grabbed Dan'l Web-
ster by the arm.

"Mr. Webster, Mr. Webster! " he said, and his voice was shak-
ing with fear and a desperate courage. "For God's sake, Mr.
Webster, harness your horses and get away from this place while

you can!"

37

Stephen Vincent Benet

"You've brought me a long way, neighbor, to tell me you don't
like my company," said Dan'l Webster, quite peaceable, pulling
at the jug.

"Miserable wretch that I am!" groaned Jabez Stone. "I've
brought you a devilish way, and now I see my folly. Let him
take me if he wills. I don't hanker after it, I must say, but I can
stand it. But you're the Union's stay and New Hampshire's
pride! He mustn't get you, Mr. Webster! He mustn't get you!"

Dan'l Webster looked at the distracted man, all gray and shak-
ing in the firelight, and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm obliged to you, Neighbor Stone," he said gently. "It's
kindly thought of. But there's a jug on the table and a case in
hand. And I never left a jug or a case half finished in my life."

And just at that moment there was a sharp rap on the door.

"Ah," said Dan'l Webster, very coolly, "I thought your clock
was a trifle slow, Neighbor Stone." He stepped to the door and
opened it. "Come in! " he said.

The stranger came in— very dark and tall he looked in the fire-
light. He was carrying a box under his arm— a black, japanned
box with little air holes in the lid. At the sight of the box, Jabez
Stone gave a low cry and shrank into a corner of the room.

"Mr. Webster, I presume," said the stranger, very polite, but
with his eyes glowing like a fox's deep in the woods.

"Attorney of record for Jabez Stone," said Dan'l Webster, but
his eyes were glowing too. "Might I ask your name?"

"I've gone by a good many," said the stranger carelessly. "Per-
haps Scratch will do for the evening. I'm often called that in
these regions."

Then he sat down at the table and poured himself a drink
from the jug. The liquor was cold in the jug, but it came steam-
ing into the glass.

"And now," said the stranger, smiling and showing his teeth,
"I shall call upon you, as a law-abiding citizen, to assist me in
taking possession of my property."

Well, with that the argument began—and it went hot and
heavy. At first, Jabez Stone had a flicker of hope, but when he
saw Dan'l Webster being forced back at point after point, he
just scrunched in his corner, with his eyes on that japanned box.
For there wasn't any doubt as to the deed or the signature-
that was the worst of it. Dan'l Webster twisted and turned

38

The Devil and Daniel Webster

and thumped his fist on the table, but he couldn't get away from
that. He offered to compromise the case; the stranger wouldn't
hear of it. He pointed out the property had increased in value,
and state senators ought to be worth more; the stranger stuck
to the letter of the law. He was a great lawyer, Dan'l Webster,
but we know who's the King of Lawyers, as the Good Book
tells us, and it seemed as if, for the first time, Dan'l Webster had
met his match.

Finally, the stranger yawned a little. "Your spirited efforts on
behalf of your client do you credit, Mr. Webster," he said, "but
if you have no more arguments to adduce, I'm rather pressed for
time"— and Jabez Stone shuddered.

Dan'l Webster's brow looked dark as a thundercloud.

"Pressed or not, you shall not have this man!" he thundered.
"Mr. Stone is an American citizen, and no American citizen may
be forced into the service of a foreign prince. We fought Eng-
land for that in '12 and we'll fight all hell for it again!"

"Foreign?" said the stranger. "And who calls me a foreigner?"

"Well, I never yet heard of the dev— of your claiming Ameri-
can citizenship," said Dan'l Webster with surprise.

"And who with better right?" said the stranger, with one of
his terrible smiles. "When the first wrong was done to the first
Indian, I was there. When the first slaver put out for the Congo,
I stood on her deck. Am I not in your books and stories and
beliefs, from the first settlements on? Am I not spoken of, still,
in every church in New England? 'Tis true the North claims me
for a Southerner and the South for a Northerner, but I am
neither. I am merely an honest American like yourself— and of
the best descent— for, to tell the truth, Mr. Webster, though I
don't like to boast of it, my name is older in this country than
yours."

"Aha!" said Dan'l Webster, with the veins standing out in his
forehead. "Then I stand on the Constitution! I demand a trial
for my client!"

"The case is hardly one for an ordinary court," said the
stranger, his eyes flickering. "And, indeed, the lateness of the
hour — "

"Let it be any court you choose, so it is an American judge
and an American jury!" said Dan'l Webster in his pride. "Let it
be the quick or the dead; I'll abide the issue!"

39

Stephen Vincent Benet

"You have said it," said the stranger, and pointed his finger at
the door. And with that, and all of a sudden, there was a rushing
of wind outside and a noise of footsteps. They came, clear and
distinct, through the night. And yet, they were not like the
footsteps of living men.

"In God's name, who comes by so late?" cried Jabez Stone,
in an ague of fear.

"The jury Mr. Webster demands," said the stranger, sipping
at his boiling glass. "You must pardon the rough appearance of
one or two; they will have come a long way."

And with that the fire burned blue and the door blew open
and twelve men entered, one by one.

If Jabez Stone had been sick with terror before, he was blind
with terror now. For there was Walter Butler, the loyalist, who
spread fire and horror through the Mohawk Valley in the times
of the Revolution; and there was Simon Girty, the renegade,
who saw white men burned at the stake and whooped with the
Indians to see them burn. His eyes were green, like a catamount's,
and the stains on his hunting shirt did not come from the blood
of the deer. King Philip was there, wild and proud as he had
been in life, with the great gash in his head that gave him his
death wound, and cruel Governor Dale, who broke men on the
wheel. There was Morton of Merry Mount, who so vexed the
Plymouth Colony, with his flushed, loose, handsome face and
his hate of the godly. There was Teach, the bloody pirate, with
his black beard curling on his breast. The Reverend John Smeet,
with his strangler's hands and his Geneva gown, walked as dain-
tily as he had to the gallows. The red print of the rope was still
around his neck, but he carried a perfumed handkerchief in one
hand. One and all, they came into the room with the fires of
hell still upon them, and the stranger named their names and
their deeds as they came, till the tale of twelve was told. Yet the
stranger had told the truth— they had all played a part in Amer-
ica.

"Are you satisfied with the jury, Mr. Webster?" said the
stranger mockingly, when they had taken their places.

The sweat stood upon Dan'l Webster's brow, but his voice
was clear.

"Quite satisfied," he said. "Though I miss General Arnold from
the company."

40

The Devil and Daniel Webster

"Benedict Arnold is engaged upon other business," said the
stranger, with a glower. "Ah, you asked for a justice, I believe."

He pointed his finger once more, and a tall man, soberly clad
in Puritan garb, with the burning gaze of the fanatic, stalked
into the room and took his judge's place.

"Justice Hathorne is a jurist of experience," said the stranger.
"He presided at certain witch trials once held in Salem. There
were others who repented of the business later, but not he."

"Repent of such notable wonders and undertakings?" said the
stern old justice. "Nay, hang them—hang them all!" And he mut-
tered to himself in a way that struck ice into the soul of Jabez
Stone.

Then the trial began, and, as you might expect, it didn't look
anyways good for the defense. And Jabez Stone didn't make
much of a witness in his own behalf. He took one look at Simon
Girty and screeched, and they had to put him back in his corner
in a kind of swoon.

It didn't halt the trial, though; the trial went on, as trials do.
Dan'l Webster had faced some hard juries and hanging judges
in his time, but this was the hardest he'd ever faced, and he knew
it.tThey sat there with a kind of glitter in their eyes, and the
stranger's smooth voice went on and on. Every time he'd raise
an objection, it'd be "Objection sustained," but whenever Dan'l
objected, it'd be "Objection denied." Well, you couldn't expect
fair play from a fellow like this Mr. Scratch.

It got to Dan'l in the end, and he began to heat, like iron
in the forge. When he got up to speak he was going to flay that
stranger with every trick known to the law, and the judge and
jury too. He didn't care if it was contempt of court or what
would happen to him for it. He didn't care any more what hap-
pened to Jabez Stone. He just got madder and madder, thinking
of what he'd say. And yet, curiously enough, the more he thought
about it, the less he was able to arrange his speech in his mind.

Till, finally, it was time for him to get up on his feet, and he
did so, all ready to bust out with lightnings and denunciations.
But before he started he looked over the judge and jury for a
moment, such being his custom. And he noticed the glitter in
their eyes was twice as strong as before, and they all leaned
forward. Like hounds just before they get the fox, they looked,
and the blue mist of evil in the room thickened as he watched

4'

Stephen Vincent Benet

them. Then he saw what he'd been about to do, and he wiped
his forehead, as a man might who's just escaped falling into a
pit in the dark.

For it was him they'd come for, not only Jabez Stone. He read
it in the glitter of their eyes and in the way the stranger hid his
mouth with one hand. And if he fought them with their own
weapons, he'd fall into their power; he knew that, though he
couldn't have told you how. It was his own anger and horror
that burned in their eyes; and he'd have to wipe that out or
the case was lost. He stood there for a moment, his black eyes
burning like anthracite. And then he began to speak.

He started off in a low voice, though you could hear every
word. They say he could call on the harps of the blessed when
he chose. And this was just as simple and easy as a man could
talk. But he didn't start out by condemning or reviling. He was
talking about the things that make a country a country, and a
man a man.

And he began with the simple things that everybody's known
and felt— the freshness of a fine morning when you're young,
and the taste of food when you're hungry, and the new day
that's every day when you're a child. He took them up and he
turned them in his hands. They were good things for any man,
But without freedom, they sickened. And when he talked of
those enslaved, and the sorrows of slavery, his voice got like a
big bell. He talked of the early days of America and the men
who had made those days. It wasn't a spread-eagle speech, but
he made you see it. He admitted all the wrong that had ever
been done. But he showed how, out of the wrong and the right,
the suffering and the starvations, something new had come. And
everybody had played a part in it, even the traitors.

Then he turned to Jab'ez Stone and showed him as he was—
an ordinary man who'd had hard luck and wanted to change it,
And, because he'd wanted to change it, now he was going to
be punished for all eternity. And yet there was good in Jabez
Stone, and he showed that good. He was hard and mean, in some
ways, but he was a man. There was sadness in being a man,
but it was a proud thing too. And he showed what the pride
of it was till you couldn't help feeling it. Yes, even in hell, if a
man was a man, you'd know it. And he wasn't pleading for any

42

The Devil and Daniel Webster

one person any more, though his voice rang like an organ. He
was telling the story and the failures and the endless journey
of mankind. They got tricked and trapped and bamboozled, but
it was a great journey. And no demon that was ever foaled
could know the inwardness of it— it took a man to do that.

The fire began to die on the hearth and the wind before morn-
ing to blow. The light was getting gray in the room when
Dan'l Webster finished. And his words came back at the end to
New Hampshire ground, and the one spot of land that each
man loves and clings to. He painted a picture of that, and to
each one of that jury he spoke of things long forgotten. For
his voice could search the heart, and that was his gift and his
strength. And to one, his voice was like the forest and its secrecy,
and to another like the sea and the storms of the sea; and one
heard the cry of his lost nation in it, and another saw a little
harmless scene he hadn't remembered for years. But each saw
something. And when Dan'l Webster finished he didn't know
whether or not he'd saved Jabez Stone. But he knew he'd done
a miracle. For the glitter was gone from the eyes of judge
and jury, and, for the moment, they were men again, and knew
they were men.

"The defense rests," said Dan'l Webster, and stood there like
a mountain. His ears were still ringing with his speech, and he
didn't hear anything else till he heard Judge Hathorne say, "The
jury will retire to consider its verdict."

Walter Butler rose in his place and his face had a dark, pay
pride on it.

"The jury has considered its verdict," he said, and looked the
stranger full in the eye. "We find for the defendant, Jabez
Stone."

With that, the smile left the stranger's face, but Walter But-
ler did not flinch.

"Perhaps 'tis not strictly in accordance with the evidence,"
he said, "but even the damned may salute the eloquence of Mr.
Webster."

With that, the long crow of a rooster split the gray morning
sky, and judge and jury were gone from the room like a puff
of smoke and as if they had never been there. The stranger
turned to Dan'l Webster, smiling wryly.

43

Stephen Vincent Benet

"Major Butler was always a bold man," he said. "I had not
thought him quite so bold. Nevertheless, my congratulations, as
between two gentlemen."

"I'll have that paper first, if you please," said Dan'l Webster,
and he took it and tore it into four pieces. It was queerly warm
to the touch. "And now," he said, "I'll have you!" and his hand
came down like a bear trap on the stranger's arm. For he knew
that once you bested anybody like Mr. Scratch in fair fight, his
power on you was gone. And he could see that Mr. Scratch knew
it too.

The stranger twisted and wriggled, but he couldn't get out of
that grip. "Come, come, Mr. Webster," he said, smiling palely.
"This sort of thing is ridic— ouch! — is ridiculous. If you're wor-
ried about the costs of the case, naturally, I'd be glad to pay — "

"And so you shall!" said Dan'l Webster, shaking him till his
teeth rattled. "For you'll sit right down at that table and draw up
a document, promising never to bother Jabez Stone nor his heirs
or assigns nor any other New Hampshireman till doomsday! For
any hades we want to raise in this state, we can raise ourselves,
without assistance from strangers."

"Ouch!" said the stranger. "Ouch! Well, they never did run
very big to the barrel, but— ouch!— I agree!"

So he sat down and drew up the document. But Dan'l Web-
itei kept his hand on his coat collar all the time.
, "And, now, may I go?" said the stranger, quite humble, when
DanTd seen the document was in proper and legal form.

"Go?" said Dan'l, giving him another shake. "I'm still trying
to figure out what I'll do with you. For you've settled the costs
of the case, but you haven't settled with me. I think I'll take you
back to Marshfield," he said, kind of reflective. "I've got a ram
there named Goliath that can butt through an iron door. I'd
kind of like to turn you loose in his field and see what he'd do."

Well, with that the stranger began to beg and to plead. And
he begged and he pled so humble that finally Dan'l, who was
naturally kindhearted, agreed to let him go. The stranger seemed
terrible grateful for that and said, just to show they were friends,
he'd tell DanTs fortune before leaving. So Dan'l agreed to that,
though he didn't take much stock in fortune-tellers ordinarily.
But, naturally, the stranger was a little different.

44

The Devil and Daniel Webster

Well, he pried and he peered at the lines in DanTs hands. And
he told him one tiling and another that was quite remarkable.
But they were all in the past.

"Yes, all that's true, and it happened," said Dan'l Webster.
"But what's to come in the future?"

The stranger grinned, kind of happily, and shook his head.

"The future's not as you think it," he said. "It's dark. You
have a great ambition, Mr. Webster."

"I have," said Dan'l firmly, for everybody knew he wanted to
be President.

"It seems almost within your grasp," said the stranger, "but
you will not attain it. Lesser men will be made President and
you will be passed over."

"And, if I am, I'll still be Daniel Webster," said Dan'l. uSay
on."

"You have two strong sons," said the stranger, shaking his
head. "You look to found a line. But each will die in war and
neither reach greatness."

"Live or die, they are still my sons," <*aid Dan'l Webster.
"Say on."

"You have made great speeches," said the stranger. "You will
make more."

"Ah," said Dan'l Webster.

"But the last great speech you make will turn many of your
own against you," said the stranger. "They will call you Ichabod;
they will call you by other names. Even in New England, some
will say you have turned your coat and sold your country, and
their voices will be loud against you till you die."

"So it is an honest speech, it does not matter what men say,'
said Dan'l Webster. Then he looked at the stranger and their
glances locked.

"One question," he said. "I have fought for the Union ail my
life. Will I see that fight won against those who would tear it
apart?"

"Not while you live," said the stranger, grimly, "but it wii)
be won. And after you are dead, there are thousands who will
fight for your cause, because of words that you spoke."

"Why, then, you long-barreled, slab-sided, lantern- jawed, for-
tune-telling note shaver!" said Dan'l Webster, with a great roar

45

Stephen Vincent Benet

of laughter, "be off with you to your own place before I put
my mark on you! For, by the thirteen original colonies, I'd go
to the Pit itself to save the Union! "

And with that he drew back his foot for a kick that would
have stunned a horse. It was only the tip of his shoe that caught
the stranger, but he went flying out of the door with his collect-
ing box under his arm.

"And now," said Dan'l Webster, seeing Jabez Stone beginning
to rouse from his swoon, "let's see what's left in the jug, for it's
dry work talking all night. I hope there's pie for breakfast, Neigh-
bor Stone."

But they say that whenever the devil comes near Marshfield,
even now, he gives it a wide berth. And he hasn't been seen in
the state of New Hampshire from that day to this. I'm not talk-
ing about Massachusetts or Vermont.

FREEDOM'S A HARD-BOUGHT THING

A long time ago, in times gone by, in slavery times, there was
a man named Cue. I want you to think about him. I've got a
reason.

He got born like the cotton in the boll or the rabbit in the pea
patch. There wasn't any fine doings when he got born, but his
mammy was glad to have him. Yes. He didn't get born in the
Big House, or the overseer's house, or any place where the bear-
ing was easy or the work light. No, Lord. He came out of his
mammy in a field hand's cabin one sharp winter, and about the
first thing he remembered was his mammy's face and the taste
of a piece of bacon rind and the light and shine of the pitch-pine
fire up the chimney. Well, now, he got born and there he was.

His daddy worked in the fields and his mammy worked in
the fields when she wasn't bearing. They were slaves; they
chopped the cotton and hoed the corn. They heard the horn
blow before the light came and the horn blow that meant the
day's work was done. His daddy was a strong man— strong in
his back and his arms. The white folks called him Cuffee. His
mammy was a good woman, yes, Lord. The white folks called
her Sarah, and she was gentle with her hands and gentle with

Freedom's a Hard-Bought Thing

her voice. She had a voice like the river going by in the night,
and at night when she wasn't too tired she'd sing songs to little
Cue. Some had foreign words in them—African words. She
couldn't remember what some of them meant, but they'd come
to her down out of time.

Now, how am I going to describe and explain about that time
when that time's gone? The white folks lived in the Big House
and they had many to tend on them. Old Marster, he lived there
like Pharaoh and Solomon, mighty splendid and fine. He had
his flocks and his herds, his butler and his baker; his fields
ran from the river to the woods and back again. He'd ride around
the fields each day on his big horse, Black Billy, just like thun-
der and lightning, and evenings he'd sit at his table and drink
his wine. Man, that was a sight to see, with all the silver knives
and the silver forks, the glass decanters, and the gentlemen and
ladies from all over. It was a sight to see. When Cue was young,
it seemed to him that Old Marster must own the whole world,
right up to the edge of the sky. You can't blame him for think-
ing that.

There were things that changed on the plantation, but it didn't
change. There were bad times and good times. There was the
time young Marse Edward got bit by the snake, and the time
Big Rambo ran away and they caugnt him with the dogs and
brought him back. There was a swivel-eyed overseer that beat
folks too much, and then there was Mr. Wade, and he wasn't
so bad. There was hog-killing time and Christmas and springtime
and summertime. Cue didn't wonder about it or why things hap-
pened that way; he didn't expect it to be different. A bee in a
hive don't ask you how there come to be a hive in the, beginning.
Cue grew up strong; he grew up smart with his hands. They
put him in the blacksmith shop to help Daddy Jake; he didn't
like it, at first, because Daddy Jake was mighty cross-tempered.
Then he got to like the work; he learned to forge iron and shape
it; he learned to shoe a horse and tire a wagon wheel, and
everything a blacksmith does. One time they let him shoe Black
Billy, and he shod him light and tight and Old Marster praised
him in front of Mr. Wade. He was strong; he was black as night;
he was proud of his back and his arms.

Now, he might have stayed that way— yes, he might. He heard
freedom talk, now and then, but he didn't pay much mind to it.

47

Stephen Vincent Bentt

He wasn't a talker or a preacher; he was Cue and he worked in
the blacksmith shop. He didn't want to be a field hand, but he
didn't want to be a house servant either. He'd rather be Cue
than poor white trash or owned by poor white trash. That's the
way he felt; I'm obliged to tell the truth about that way.

Then there was a sickness came and his mammy and his daddy
died of it. Old Miss got the doctor for them, but they died
just the same. After that, Cue felt lonesome.

He felt lonesome and troubled in his mind. He'd seen his daddy
and his mammy put in the ground and new slaves come to take
their cabin. He didn't repine about that, because he knew things
had to be that way. But when he went to bed at night, in the
loft over the blacksmith shop, he'd keep thinking about his
mammy and his daddy— how strong his daddy was and the songs
that his mammy sang. They'd worked all their lives and had
children, though he was the only one left, but the only place
of their own they had was the place in the burying ground. And
yet they'd been good and faithful servants, because Old Marster
said so, with his hat off, when he buried them. The Big House
stayed, and the cotton and the corn, but Cue's mammy and daddy
were gone like last year's crop. It made Cue wonder and trouble.

He began to take notice of things he'd never noticed. When
the horn blew in the morning for the hands to go to the fields,
he'd wonder who started blowing that horn, in the first place.
It wasn't like thunder and lightning; somebody had started it.
When he heard Old Marster say, when he was talking to a
friend, "This damned epidemic! It's cost me eight prime field
hands and the best-trained butler in the state. I'd rather have lost
the Flyaway colt than Old Isaac," Cue put that down in his mind
and pondered it. Old Marster didn't mean it mean, and he'd sat
up with Old Isaac all night before he died. But Isaac and Cue
and the Flyaway colt, they all belonged to Old Marster and he
owned them, hide and hair. He owned them, like money in his
pockets. Well, Cue had known that all his life, but because he
was troubled now, it gave him a queer feeling.

Well, now, he was shoeing a horse for young Marster Shepley
one day, and he shod it fight and tight. And when he was
through, he made a stirrup for young Marster Shepley, and
young Marster Shepley mounted and threw him a silver bit, with
a laughing word. That shouldn't have bothered Cue, because

Freedom's a Hard-Bought Thing

gentlemen sometimes did that. And Old Marster wasn't mean;
he didn't object. But all night Cue kept feeling the print of young
Marster Shepley's heel in his hands. And yet he liked young
Marster Shepley. He couldn't explain it at all.

Finally, Cue decided he must be conjured. He didn't know
who had done it or why they'd done it. But he knew what he
had to do. He had to go see Aunt Rachel.

Aunt Rachel was an old, old woman, and she lived in a cabin
by herself, with her granddaughter, Sukey. She'd seen Old Mar-
ster's father and his father, and the tale went she'd seen George
Washington with his hair all white, and General Lafayette in
his gold-plated suit of clothes that the King of France gave him
to fight in. Some folks said she was a conjure and some folks said
she wasn't, but everybody on the plantation treated her mighty
respectful, because, if she put her eye on you, she mightn't take
it off. Well, his mammy had been friends with Aunt Rachel, so
Cue went to see her.

She was sitting alone in her cabin by the low light of a fire.
There was a pot on the fire, and now and then you could hear
it bubble and chunk, like a bullfrog chunking in the swamp,
but that was the only sound* Cue made his obleegances to her
and asked her about the misery in her back. Then he gave her a
chicken he happened to bring along. It was a black rooster, and
she seemed pleased to get it. She took it in her thin black hands
and it fluttered and clucked a minute. So she drew a chalk line
from its beak along a board, and then it stayed still and frozen.
Well, Cue had seen that trick done before. But it was different,
seeing it done in Aunt Rachel's cabin, with the big pot chunking
on the fire. It made him feel uneasy and he jingled the bit in his
pocket for company.

After a while, the old woman spoke. "Well, Son Cue," said she,
"that's a fine young rooster you've brought me. What else did
you bring me, Son Cue?"

"I brought you trouble," said Cue, in a husky voice, because
that was all he could think of to say.

She nodded her head as if she'd expected that. "They mostly
brings me trouble," she said. "They mostly brings trouble to
Aunt Rachel. What kind of trouble, Son Cue? Man trouble or
woman trouble?"

49

Stephen Vincent Benet

"It's my trouble," said Cue, and he told her the best way he
could. When he'd finished, the pot on the fire gave a bubble and
a croak, and the old woman took a long spoon and stirred it.

"Well, Son Cue, son of Cuffee, son of Shango," she said,
"you've got a big trouble, for sure."
' "Is it going to kill me dead?" said Cue.

"I can't tell you right about that," said Aunt Rachel. "I could
give you lies and prescriptions. Maybe I would, to some folks. But
your Granddaddy Shango was a powerful man. It took three men
to put the irons on him, and I saw the irons break his heart. I
won't lie to you, Son Cue. You've got a sickness."

"Is it a bad sickness?" said Cue.

"It's a sickness in your blood," said Aunt Rachel. "It's a sick-
ness in your liver and your veins. Your daddy never had it that
I knows of— he took after his mammy's side. But his daddy was
a Corromantee, and they is bold and free, and you takes after
him. It's the freedom sickness, Son Cue."

"The freedom sickness?" said Cue.

"The freedom sickness," said the old woman, and her little eyes
glittered like sparks. "Some they break and some they tame
down," she said, "and some is neither to be tamed or broken.
Don't I know the signs and the sorrow— me, that come through
the middle passage on the slavery ship and seen my folks scat-
tered like sand? Ain't I seen it coming, Lord— O Lord, ain't I seen
it coming?"

"What's coming?" said Cue.

"A darkness in the sky and a cloud with a sword in it," said
the old woman, stirring the pot, "because they hold our people
and they hold our people."

Cue began to tremble. "I don't want to get whipped," he said.
"I never been whipped— not hard."

"They whipped your Granddaddy Shango till the blood ran
twinkling down his back," said the old woman, "but some you
can't break or tame."

"I don't want to be chased by dogs," said Cue. "I don't want
to hear the dogs belling and the paterollers after me."

The old woman stirred the pot.

"Old Marster, he's a good marster," said Cue. "I don't want to
do him no harm. I don't want no trouble or projecting to get me
into trouble."

50

Freedom's a Hard-Bought Thing

The old woman stirred the pot and stirred the pot.

"O God, I want to be free," said Cue. "I just ache and hone to
be free. How I going to be free, Aunt Rachel?"

"There's a road that runs underground," said the old woman.
"I never seen it, but I knows of it. There's a railroad train that
runs, sparking and snorting, underground through the earth. At
least that's what they tell me. But I wouldn't know for sure," and
she looked at Cue.

Cue looked back at her bold enough, for he'd heard about the
Underground Railroad himself— just mentions and whispers. But
he knew there wasn't any use asking the old woman what she
wouldn't tell.

"How I going to find that road, Aunt Rachel?" he said.

"You look at the rabbit in the brier and you see what he do,"
said the old woman. "You look at the owl in the woods and you
see what he do. You look at the star in the sky and you see what
she do. Then you come back and talk to me. Now I'm going to
eat, because I'm hungry."

That was all the words she'd say to him that night; but when
Cue went back to his loft, her words kept boiling around in his
mind. All night he could hear that train of railroad cars, snorting
and sparking underground through the earth. So, next morning,
he ran away.

He didn't run far or fast. How could he? He'd never been
more than twenty miles from the plantation in his life; he didn't
know the roads or the ways. He ran off before the horn, and Mr.
Wade caught him before sundown. Now, wasn't he a stupid man,
that Cue?

When they brought him back, Mr. Wade let him off light,
because he was a good boy and never run away before. All the
same, he got ten, and ten laid over the ten. Yellow Joe, the head
driver, laid them on. The first time the whip cut into him, it was
just like a fire on Cue's skin, and he didn't see how he could stand
it. Then he got to a place where he could.

After it was over, Aunt Rachel crope up to his loft and had
her granddaughter, Sukey, put salve on his back. Sukey, she was
sixteen, and golden-skinned and pretty as a peach on a peach tree.
>She worked in the Big House and he never expected her to do
a thing like that.

"I'm mighty obliged," he said, though he kept thinking it was

51

Stephen Vincent Benet

Aunt Rachel got him into trouble and he didn't feel as obliged as
he might.

"Is that all you've got to say to me, Son Cue?" said Aunt
Rachel, looking down at him. "I told you to watch three things.
Did you watch them?"

"No'm," said Cue. "I run off in the woods just like I was a
wild turkey. I won't never do that no more."

"You're right, Son Cue," said the old woman. "Freedom's a
hard-bought thing. So, now you've been whipped, I reckon you'll
give it up."

"I been whipped," said Cue, "but there's a road running under-
ground. You told me so. I been whipped, but I ain't beaten."

"Now you're learning a thing to remember," said Aunt Rachel,
and went away. But Sukey stayed behind for a while and cooked
Cue's supper. He never expected her to do a thing like that, but
he liked it when she did.

When his back got healed, they put him with the field gang for
a while. But then there was blacksmith work that needed to be
done and they put him back in the blacksmith shop. And things
went on for a long time just the way they had before. But there
was a difference in Cue. It was like he'd lived up till now with
his ears and his eyes sealed over. And now he began to open his
eyes and his ears.

He looked at the rabbit in the brier and he saw it could hide.
He looked at the owl in the woods and he saw it went soft
through the night. He looked at the star in the sky and he saw she
pointed north. Then he began to figure.

He couldn't figure things fast, so he had to figure things slow.
He figure the owl and the rabbit got wisdom the white folks
don't know about. But he figure the white folks got wisdom he
don't know about. They got reading and writing wisdom, and it
seem mighty powerful. He ask Aunt Rachel if that's so, and she
say it's so.

That's how come he learned to read and write. He ain't sup-
posed to. But Sukey, she learned some of that wisdom, along with
the young misses, and she teach him out of a little book she tote
from the Big House. The little book, it's all about bats and rats
and cats, and Cue figure whoever wrote it must be sort of touched
in the head not to write about things folks would want to know,
instead of all those trifling animals. But he put himself to it and he

Freedom^ a Hard-Bought Thing

learn. It almost bust his head, but he learn. It's a proud day for
him when he write his name, "Cue," in the dust with the end of
a stick and Sukey tell him that's right.

Now he began to hear the first rumblings of that train running
underground— that train that's the Underground Railroad. Oh,
children, remember the names of Levi Coffin and John Hansen!
Remember the Quaker saints that hid the fugitive! Remember the
names of all those that helped set our people free!

There's a word dropped here and a word dropped there and a
word that's passed around. Nobody know where the word come
from or where it goes, but it's there. There's many a word spoken
in the quarters that the Big House never hears about. There's a
heap said in front of the fire that never flies up the chimney.
There's a name you tell to the grapevine that the grapevine don't
tell back.

There was a white man, one day, came by, selling maps and
pictures. The quality folks, they looked at his maps and pictures
and he talked with them mighty pleasant and respectful. But
while Cue was tightening a bolt on his wagon, he dropped a word
and a word. The word he said made that underground train come
nearer.

Cue meet that man one night, all alone, in the woods. He's a
quiet man with a thin face. He hold his life in his hands every
day he walk about, but he don't make nothing of that. Cue's
seen bold folks and bodacious folks, but it's the first time he's
seen a man bold that way. It makes him proud to be a man. The
man ask Cue questions and Cue give him answers. While he's
seeing that man, Cue don't just think about himself any more. He
think about all his people that's in trouble.

The man say something to him; he say, "No man own the
earth. It's too big for one man." He say, "No man own another
man; that's too big a thing too." Cue think about those words and
ponder them. But when he gets back to his loft, the courage
drains out of him and he sits on his straw tick, staring at the wall.
That's the time the darkness comes to him and the shadow falls
on him.

He aches and he hones for freedom, but he aches and he hones
for Sukey too. And Long Ti's cabin is empty, and it's a good
cabin. All he's got to do is to go to Old Marster and take Sukey
with him. Old Marster don't approve to mix the field hand with

53

Stephen Vincent Benet

the house servant, but Cue's different; Cue's a blacksmith. He can
see the way Sukey would look, coming back to her in the evening.
He can see the way she'd be in the morning before the horn. He
can see all that. It ain't freedom, but it's what he's used to. And
the other way's long and hard and lonesome and strange.

"O Lord, why you put this burden on a man like me?" say
Cue. Then he listen a long time for the Lord to tell him, and it
seem to him, at last, that he get an answer. The answer ain't in
any words, but it's a feeling in his heart.

So when the time come and the plan ripe and they get to the
boat on the river and they see there's one too many for the boat,
Cue know the answer. He don't have to hear the quiet white man
say, "There's one too many for the boat." He just pitch Sukey
into it before he can think too hard. He don't say a word or a
groan. He know it's that way and there's bound to be a reason
for it. He stand on the bank in the dark and see the boat pull
away, like Israel's children. Then he hear the shouts and the shot.
He know what he's bound to do then, and the reason for it.
He know it's the paterollers, and he show himself. When he get
back to the plantation, he's worn and tired. But the paterollers,
they've chased him, instead of the boat.

He creep by Aunt Rachel's cabin and he see the fire at her
window. So he scratch at the door and go in. And there she is.
sitting by the fire, all hunched up and little.

"You looks poorly, Son Cue," she say, when he come in,
though she don't take her eye off the pot.

"I'm poorly, Aunt Rachel," he say. "I'm sick and sorry and
distressed."

"What's the mud on your jeans, Son Cue?" she say, and the
pot, it bubble and croak.

"That's the mud of the swamp where I hid from the paterol-
lers," he say.

"What's tho-hole in your leg, Son Cue?" she say, and the pot,
it croak and bubble.

"That's the hole from the shot they shot at me," say Cue. "The
blood most nearly dried, but it make me lame. But Israel's chil-
dren, they's safe."

"They's across the river?" say the old woman.

"They's across the river," say Cue. "They ain't room for no
more in the boat. But Sukey, she's across."

54

Freedom's a Hard-Bought Thing

"And what will you do now, Son Cue?" say the old woman.
"For that was your chance and your time, and you give it up for
another. And tomorrow morning, Mr. Wade, he'll see that hole
in your leg and he'll ask questions. It's a heavy burden you've
laid on yourself, Son Cue."

"It's a heavy burden," say Cue, "and I wish I was shut of it. I
never asked to take no such burden. But freedom's a hard-bought
thing."

The old woman stand up sudden, and for once she look straight
and tall. "Now bless the Lord!" she say. "Bless the Lord and
praise him! I come with my mammy in the slavery ship— I come
through the middle passage. There ain't many that remember
that, these days, or care about it. There ain't many that remember
the red flag that witched us on board or how we used to be free.
Many thousands gone, and the thousands of many thousands that
lived and died in slavery. But I remember. I remember them all.
Then they took me into the Big House— me that was a Mandingo
and a witch woman— and the way I live in the Big House, that's
between me and my Lord. If I clone wrong, I done paid for it—
I paid for it with weeping and sorrow. That's before Old Miss'
time and I help raise up Old Miss. They sell my daughter to the
South and my son to the West, but I raise up Old Miss and tend
on her. I ain't going to repine of that. I count the hairs on Old
Miss' head when she's young, and she turn to me, weak and help-
less. And for that there'll be a kindness between me and the Big
House— a kindness that folks will remember. But my children's
children shall be free." .

"You do this to me," say Cue, and he look at her, and he look
dangerous. "You do this to me, old woman," he say, and his
breath come harsh in his throat, and his hands twitch.

"Yes," she say, and look him straight in the eyes. "I do to you
what I never even do for my own. I do it for your Granddaddy
Shango, that never turn to me in the light of the fire. He turn to
that soft Eboe woman, and I have to see it. He roar like a lion in
the chains, and I have to see that. So, when you come, I try you
and I test you, to see if you fit to follow after him. And because
you fit to follow after him, I put freedom in your heart, Son
Cue."

"I never going to be free," say Cue, and look at his hands. "I
done broke all the rules. They bound to sell me now."

ss

Stephen Vincent Eenet

"You'll be sold and sold again," say the old woman. ''You'll
know the chains and the whip. I can't help that. You'll suffer for
your people and with your people. But while one man's got free-
dom in his heart, his children bound to know the tale."

She put the lid on the pot and it stop bubbling.

"Now I come to the end of my road," she say, ubut the tale
don't stop there. The tale go backward to Africa and it go for-
ward, like clouds and fire. It go, laughing and grieving forever,
through the earth and the air and the waters— my people's tale."

Then she drop her hands in her lap and Cue creep out of the
cabin. He know then he's bound to be a witness, and it make him
feel cold and hot. He know then he's bound to be a witness and
tell that tale. O Lord, it's hard to be a witness, and Cue know
that. But it help him in the days to come.

Now, when he get sold, that's when Cue feel the iron in his
heart. Before that, and all his life, he despise bad servants and
bad marsters. He live where the marster's good; he don't take
much mind of other places. He's a slave, but he's Cue, the black-
smith, and Old Marster and Old Miss, they tend to him. Now he
know the iron in his heart and what it's like to be a slave.

He know that on the rice fields in the hot sun. He know that,
working all day for a handful of corn. He know the bad marsters
and the cruel overseers. He know the bite of the whip and the
gall of the iron on the ankle. Yes, Lord, he know tribulation. He
know his own tribulation and the tribulation of his people. But
all the time, somehow, he keep freedom in his heart. Freedom
mighty hard to root out when it's in the heart.

He don't know the day or the year, and he forget, half the
time, there ever was a gal named Sukey. All he don't forget is
the noise of the train in his ears, the train snorting and sparking
underground. He think about it at nights till he dream it carry
him away. Then he wake up with the horn. He feel ready to die
then, but he don't die. He live through the whip and the chain;
he live through the iron and the fire. And finally he get away.

When he get away, he ain't like the Cue he used to be— not
even back at Old Marster's place. He hide in the woods like a
rabbit; he slip through the night like an owl. He go cold and
hungry, but the star keep shining over him and he keep his eyes
on the star. They set the dogs after him and he hear the dogs
belling and yipping through the woods.

56

Freedom's a Hard-Bought Thing

He's scared when he hear the dogs, but he ain't scared like he
used to be. He ain't more scared than any man. He kill the big
dog in the clearing—the big dog with the big voice— and he do it
with his naked hands. He cross water three times after that to
kill the scent, and he go on.

He got nothing to help him— no, Lord— but he got a star. The
star shine in the sky and the star shine— the star point north with
its shining. You put that star in the sky, O Lord; you put it for
the prisoned and the humble. You put it there— you ain't never
going to blink it out.

He hungry and he eat green corn and cowpeas. He thirsty and
he drink swamp water. One time he lie two days in the swamp,
too puny to get up on his feet, and he know they hunting around
him. He think that's the end of Cue. But after two days he lift
his head and his hand. He kill a snake with a stone, and after he's
cut out the poison bag, he eat the snake to strengthen him, and
go on.

He don't know what the day is when he come to the wide,
cold river. The river yellow and foaming, and Cue can't swim.
But he hide like a crawdad on the bank; he make himself a little
raft with two logs. He know this time's the last time and he's
obliged to drown. But he put out on the raft and it drift him to
the freedom side. He mighty weak by then.

He mighty weak, but he careful. He know tales of Billy Shea,
the slave catcher; he remember those tales. He slide into the town
by night, like a shadow, like a ghost. He beg broken victuals at
a door; the woman give them to him, but she look at him suspi-
cious. He make up a tale to tell her, but he don't think she believe
the tale. In the gutter he find a newspaper; he pick it up and look
at the notices. There's a notice about a runaway man named Cue.
He look at it and it make the heart beat in his breast.

He patient; he mighty careful. He leave that town behind. He
got the name of another town, Cincinnati, and a man's name in
that town. He doh't know where it is; he have to ask his way,
but he do it mighty careful. One time he ask a yellow man direc-
tions; he don't like the look on the yellow man's face. He remem-
ber Aunt Rachel; he tell the yellow man he conjure his liver
out if the yellow man tell him wrong. Then the yellow man
scared and tell him right. He don't hurt the yellow man; he 4<pn't

57

Stephen Vincent Benet

blame him for not wanting trouble. But he make the yellow man
change pants with him, because his pants mighty ragged.

He patient; he very careful. When he get to the place he been
told about, he look all about that place. It's a big house; it don't
look right. He creep around to the back— he creep and he crawl.
He look in a window; he see white folks eating their supper.
They just look like any white folks. He expect them to look dif-
ferent. He feel mighty bad. All the same, he rap at the window
the way he been told. They don't nobody pay attention and he
just about to go away. Then the white man get up from the
table and open the back door a crack. Cue breathe in the dark-
ness.

"God bless the stranger the Lord sends us," say the white man
in a low, clear voice, and Cue run to him and stumble, and the
white man catch him. He look up and it's a white man, but he
ain't like thunder and lightning.

He take Cue and wash his wounds and bind them up. He feed
him and hide him under the floor of the house. He ask him his
name and where he's from. Then he send him on. O Lord, re-
member thy tried servant, Asaph Brown! Remember his name!

They send him from there in a wagon, and he's hidden in the
straw at the bottom. They send him from the next place in a
closed cart with six others, and they can't say a word all night.
One time a tollkeeper ask them what's in the wagon, and the
driver say, "Southern calico," and the tollkeeper laugh. Cue al-
ways recollect that.

One time they get to big water— so big it look like the ocean.
They cross that water in a boat; they get to the other side. When
they get to the other side, they sing and pray, and white folks
look on, curious. But Cue don't even feel happy; he just feel he
want to sleep.

He sleep like he never sleep before— not for days and years.
When he wake up, he wonder; he hardly recollect where he is.
He lying in the loft of a barn. Ain't nobody around him. He get
up and go out in the air. It's a fine sunny day.

He get up and go out. He say to himself, Tm free, but it don't
take hold yet. He say to himself, This is Canada and Tm free,
but it don't take hold. Then he start to walk down the street.

The first white man he meet on the street, he scrunch up in

58

Freedom^ a Hard-Bought Thing

himself and start to run across the street. But the white man don't
pay him any mind. Then he know.

He say to himself in his mind, Vm free. My name's Cue— John
H. Cue. I got a strong back and strong arms. I got freedom in
my heart. I got a first name and a last name and a middle name.
I never had them all before.

He say to himself, My name's Cue— John H. Cue. I got a name
and a tale to tell. I got a hammer to swing. I got a tale to tell my
people. I got recollection. I call my first son 'John Freedom Cue.9
I call my first daughter 'Come-Out-of-the-Liotfs-Mouth.'

Then he walk down the street, and he pass a blacksmith shop.
The blacksmith, he's an old man and he lift the hammer heavy.
Cue look in that shop and smile.

He pass on; he go his way. And soon enough he see a girl like
a peach tree- a girl named Sukey— walking free down the street.

O'HALLORAN'S LUCK

They were strong men built the Big Road, in the early days
of America, and it was the Irish did it.

My grandfather, Tim O'Halloran, was a young man then, and
wild. He could swing a pick all day and dance all night, if there
was a fiddler handy; and if there was a girl to be pleased he
pleased her, for he had the tongue and the eye. Likewise, if there
was a man to be stretched, he could stretch him with the one
blow.

I saw him later on in years when he was thin and white-
headed, but in his youth he was not so. A thin, white-headed
man would have had little chance, and they driving the Road
to the West. It was two-fisted men cleared the plains and bored
through the mountains. They came in the thousands to do it
from every county in Ireland; and now the names are not
known. But it's over their graves you pass, when you ride in
the Pullmans. And Tim O'Halloran was one of them, six feet
high and solid as the Rock of Cashel when he stripped to the
skin.
He needed to be all of that, for it was not easy labor. Twas

59

Stephen Vincent Benet

a time of great booms and expansions in the railroad line, and
they drove the tracks north and south, east and west, as if the
devil was driving behind. For this they must have the boys with
shovel and pick, and every immigrant ship from Ireland was
crowded with bold young men. They left famine and England's
rule behind them— and it was the thought of many they'd pick
up gold for the asking in the free States of America, though it's
little gold that most of them ever saw. They found themselves
up to their necks in the water of the canals, and burnt black
by the suns of the prairie— and that was a great surprise to them.
They saw their sisters and their mothers made servants that had
not been servants in Ireland, and that was a strange change too.
Eh, the death and the broken hopes it takes to make a country!
But those with the heart and the tongue kept the tongue and the
heart.

Tim O'Halloran came from Clonmelly, and he was the fool
of the family and the one who listened to tales. His brother
Ignatius went for a priest and his brother James for a sailor, but
they knew he could not do those things. He was strong and
biddable and he had the O'Halloran tongue; but there came
a time of famine, when the younger months cried for bread
and there was little room in the nest. He was not entirely wish-
ful to emigrate, and yet, when he thought of it, he was wishful.
'Tis often enough that way, with a younger son. Perhaps he
was the more wishful because of Kitty Malone.

'Tis a quiet place, Clonmelly, and she'd been the light of it
to him. But now the Malones had gone to the States of America
—and it was well known that Kitty had a position there the like
of which was not to be found in all Dublin Castle. They called
her a hired girl, to be sure, but did not she eatvfrom gold plates,
like all the citizens of America? And when she stirred her tea,
was not the spoon made of gold? Tim O'Halloran thought of
this, and of the chances and adventures that a bold young man
might find, and at last he went to the boat. There were many
from Clonmelly on that boat, but he kept himself to himself
and dreamed his own dreams.

The more disillusion it was to him, when the boat landed him
in Boston and he found Kitty Malone there, scrubbing the stairs
of an American house with a pail and brush by her side. But
that did not matter, after the first, for her cheeks still had the

60

O'Hallorari's Luck

rose in them and she looked at him in the same way. 'Tis true
there was an Orangeman courting her—conductor he was on the
horsecars, and Tim did not like that. But after Tim had seen
her, he felt himself the equal of giants; and when the call came
for strong men to work in the wilds of the West, he was one
of the first to offer. They broke a sixpence between them before
he left— it was an English sixpence, but that did not matter greatly
to them. And Tim O'Halloran was going to make his fortune,
and Kitty Malone to wait for him, though her family liked the
Orangeman best.

Still and all, it was cruel work in the West, as such work must
be, and Tim O'Halloran was young. He liked the strength and
the wildness of it— he'd drink with the thirstiest and fight with
the wildest— and that he knew how to do. It was all meat and
drink to him— the bare tracks pushing ahead across the bare
prairie and the fussy cough of the wood-burning locomotives
and the cold blind eyes of a murdered man, looking up at the
prairie stars. And then there was the cholera and the malaria—
and the strong man you'd worked on the grade beside, all of a
sudden gripping his belly with the fear of death on his face
and his shovel falling to the ground.

Next day he would not be there and they'd scratch a name
from the pay roll. Tim O'Halloran saw it all.

He saw it all and it changed his boyhood and hardened it.
But, for all that, there were times when the black fit came upon
him, as it does to the Irish, and he knew he was alone in a strange
land. Well, that's a hard hour to get through, and he was young.
There were times when he'd have given all the gold of the
Americas for a smell of Clonmelly air or a glimpse of Clonmelly
sky. Then he'd drink or dance or fight or put a black word on
the foreman, just to take the aching out of his mind. It did not
help him with his work and it wasted his pay; but it was stronger
than he, and not even the thought of Kitty Malone could stop
it. 'Tis like that, sometimes.

Well, it happened one night he was coming back from the
place where they sold the potheen, and perhaps he'd had a trifle
more of it than was advisable. Yet he had not drunk it for that,
but to keep the queer thoughts from his mind. And yet, the
more that he drank, the queerer were the thoughts in his head.
For he kept thinking of the Luck of the O'Hallorans and the

61

Stephen Vincent Benet

tales his grandda had told about it in the old country— the tales
about pookas and banshees and leprechauns with long white
beards.

"And that's a queer thing to be thinking and myself at labor
with a shovel on the open prairies of America," he said to him-
self. "Sure, creatures like that might live and thrive in the old
country— and I'd be the last to deny it— but 'tis obvious they
could not live here. The first sight of Western America would
scare them into conniptions. And as for the Luck of the O'Hal-
lorans, 'tis little good I've had of it, and me not even able to rise
to foreman and marry Kitty Malone. They called me the fool of
the family in Clonmelly, and I misdoubt but they were right.
Tim O'Halloran, you're a worthless man, for all your strong
back and arms." It was with such black, bitter thoughts as these
that he went striding over the prairie. And it was just then that
he heard the cry in the grass.

Twas a strange little piping cry, and only the half of it human.
But Tim O'Halloran ran to it, for in truth he was spoiling for a
fight. "Now this will be a beautiful young lady," he said to him-
self as he ran, "and I will save her from robbers; and her father,
the rich man, will ask me—but, wirra, 'tis not her I wish to
marry, 'tis Kitty Malone. Well, he'll set me up in business, out
of friendship and gratitude, and then I will send for Kitty—"

But by then he was out of breath, and by the time he had
reached the place where the cry came from he could see that it
was not so. It was only a pair of young wolf cubs, and they
chasing something small and helpless and playing with it as a
cat plays with a mouse. Where the wolf cub is the old wolves are
not far, but Tim O'Halloran felt as bold as a lion. "Be off with
you!" he cried and he threw a stick and a stone. They ran away
into the night, and he could hear them howling— a lonesome
sound. But he knew the camp was near, so he paid small atten-
tion to that but looked for the thing they'd been chasing.

It scuttled in the grass but he could not see it. Then he stooped
down and picked something up, and when he had it in his hand
he stared at it unbelieving. For it was a tiny shoe, no bigger
than a child's. And more than that, it was not the kind of shoe
that is made in America. Tim O'Halloran stared and stared at it
—and at the silver buckle upon it— and still he could not believe.

"If I'd found this in the old country," he said to himself, half

62

O'Halloran's Luck

aloud, "I'd have sworn that it was a leprechaun's and looked for
the pot of gold. But here, there's no chance of that—"

"I'll trouble you for the shoe," said a small voice close by his
feet.

Tim O'Halloran stared round him wildly. "By the piper that
played before Moses!" he said. "Am I drunk beyond compre-
hension? Or am I mad? For I thought that I heard a voice."

"So you did, silly man," said the voice again, but irritated,
"and I'll trouble you for my shoe, for it's cold in the dewy grass."

"Honey," said Tim O'Halloran, beginning to believe his ears,
"honey dear, if you'll but show yourself—"

"I'll do that and gladly," said the voice; and with that the
grasses parted, and a little old man with a long white beard
stepped out. He was perhaps the size of a well-grown child, as
O'Halloran could see clearly by the moonlight on the prairie;
moreover, he was dressed in the clothes of antiquity, and he
carried cobbler's tools in the belt at his side.

"By faith and belief, but it is a leprechaun!" cried O'Halloran,
and with that he made a grab for the apparition. For you must
know, in case you've been ill brought up, that a leprechaun is a
sort of cobbler fairy and each one knows the whereabouts of
a pot of gold. Or it's so they say in the old country. For they
say you can tell a leprechaun by his long white beard and his
cobbler's tools; and once you have the possession of him, he must
tell you where his gold is hid.

The little old man skipped out of reach as nimbly as a
cricket. "Is this Clonmelly courtesy?" he said with a shake in his
voice, and Tim O'Halloran felt ashamed.

"Sure, I didn't mean to hurt your worship at all," he said,
"but if you're what you seem to be, well, then, there's the little
matter of a pot of gold—"

"Pot of gold!" said the leprechaun, and his voice was hollow
and full of scorn. "And would I be here today if I had that
same? Sure, it all went to pay my sea passage, as you might ex-
pect."

"Well," said Tim O'Halloran, scratching his head, for that
sounded reasonable enough, "that may be so or again it may not
be so. But-"

"Oh, 'tis bitter hard," said the leprechaun, and his voice was
weeping, "to come to the waste, wild prairies all alone, just for

63

Stephen Vincent Benet

the love of Clonmelly folk— and then to be disbelieved by the
first that speaks to me! If it had been an Ulsterman now, I might
have expected it. But the O'Hallorans wear the green."

"So they do," said Tim O'Halloran, "and it shall not be said
of an O'Halloran that he denied succor to the friendless. I'll not
touch you."

"Do you swear it?" said the leprechaun.

"I swear it," said Tim O'Halloran.

"Then I'll just creep under your coat," said the leprechaun,
"for I'm near destroyed by the chills and damps of the prairie.
Oh, this weary emigrating!" he said, with a sigh like a furnace.
" Tis not what it's cracked up to be."

Tim O'Halloran took off his own coat and wrapped it around
him. Then he could see him closer—and it could not be denied
that the leprechaun was a pathetic sight. He'd a queer little boy-
ish face, under the long white beard, but his clothes were all
torn and ragged and his cheeks looked hollow with hunger.

"Cheer up!" said Tim O'Halloran and patted him on the back.
"It's a bad day that beats the Irish. But tell me first how you
came here— for that still sticks in my throat."

"And would I be staying behind with half Clonmelly on the
water?" said the leprechaun stoutly. "By the bones of Finn,
what sort of a man do you think I am?"

"That's well said," said Tim O'Halloran. "And yet I never
heard of the Good People emigrating before."

"True for you," said the leprechaun. "The climate here's not
good for most of us and that's a fact. There's a boggart or so
that came over with the English, but then the Puritan ministers
got after them and they had to take to the woods. And I had a
word or two, on my way West, with a banshee that lives by
Lake Superior— a decent woman she was, but you could see she'd
come down in the world. For even the bits of children wouldn't
believe in her; and when she let out a screech, sure they thought
it was a steamboat. I misdoubt she's died since then— she was not
in good health when I left her.

"And as for the native spirits— well, you can say what you
like, but they're not very comfortable people. I was captive to
some of them a week and they treated me well enough, but they
whooped and danced too much for a quiet man, and I did not
like the long, sharp knives on them. Oh, I've had the adventures

O'Halloran" $ Luck

on my way here," he said, "but they're over now, praises be, for
I've found a protector at last," and he snuggled closer under
O'Halloran's coat.

"Well," said O'Halloran, somewhat taken aback, "I did not
think this would be the way of it when I found O'Halloran's
Luck that I'd dreamed of so long. For, first I save your life from
the wolves; and now, it seems, I must be protecting you further.
But in the tales it's always the other way round."

"And is the company and conversation of an ancient and ex-
perienced creature like myself nothing to you?" said the lepre-
chaun fiercely. "Me that had my own castle at Clonmelly and
saw O'Sheen in his pride? Then St. Patrick came— wirra, wirra! —
and there was an end to it all. For some of us— the Old Folk of
Ireland— he baptized, and some of us he chained with the demons
of hell. But I was Lazy Brian, betwixt and between, and all I
wanted was peace and a quiet life. So he changed me to what
you see— me that had six tall harpers to harp me awake in the
morning— and laid a doom upon me for being betwixt and be-
tween. I'm to serve Clonmelly folk and follow them wherever
they go till I serve the servants of servants in a land at the world's
end. And then, perhaps, I'll be given a Christian soul and can fol-
low my own inclinations."

"Serve the servants of servants?" said O'Halloran. "Well, that's
a hard riddle to read."

"It is that," said the leprechaun, "for I never once met the
servant of a servant in Clonmelly, all the time I've been looking.
I doubt but that was in St. Patrick's mind."

"If it's criticizing the good saint you are, I'll leave you here
on the prairie," said Tim O'Halloran.

"I'm not criticizing him," said the leprechaun with a sigh, "but
I wish he'd been less hasty. Or more specific. And now, what do
we do?"

"Well," said O'Halloran, and he sighed, too, " 'tis a great re-
sponsibility, and one I never thought to shoulder. But since
you've asked for help, you must have it. Only there's just this
to be said. There's little money in my pocket."

"Sure, 'tis not for your money I've come to you," said the
leprechaun joyously. "And I'll stick closer than a brother."

"I'VE no doubt of that," said O'Halloran with a wiy laugh.
"Well, clothes and food I can get for you— but if you stick with

65

Stephen Vincent Eenet

me, you must work as well. And perhaps the best way would
be for you to be my young nephew, Rory, run away from home
to work on the railroad."

"And how would I be your young nephew, Rory, and me with
a long white beard.V7

"Well," said Tim O'Halloran with a grin, "as it happens, I've
got a razor in my pocket."

And with that you should have heard the leprechaun. He
stamped and he swore and he pled— but it wis no use at all. If
he was to follow Tim O'Halloran, he must do it on Tim O'Hal-
Joran's terms and no two ways about it. So O'Halloran shaved
him at last, by the light of the moon, to the leprechaun's great
horror, and when he got him back to the construction camp
and fitted him out in some old duds of his own— well, it wasn't
exactly a boy he looked, but it was more like a boy than anything
else. Tim took him up to the foreman the next day and got him
signed on for a water boy, and it was a beautiful tale he told
the foreman. As well, too, that he had the O'Halloran tongue
to tell it with, for when the foreman first looked at young Rory
you could see him gulp like a man that's seen a ghost.

"And now what do we do?" said the leprechaun to Tim when
the interview was over.

"Why, you work," said Tim with a great laugh, "and Sundays
you wash your shirt."

"Thank you for nothing," said the leprechaun with an angry
gleam in his eye. "It was not for that I came here from Clon-
mellv."

"Oh, we've all come here for great fortune," said Tim, "but
it's hard to find that same. Would you rather be with the
wolves?"

"Oh, no," said the leprechaun.

"Then drill, ye tarrier, drill!" said Tim O'Halloran and shoul-
dered his shovel, while the leprechaun trailed behind.

At the end of the day the leprechaun came to him.

"I've never done mortal work before," he said, "and there's no
bone in my body that's not a pain and an anguish to me."

"You'll feel better after supper," said O'Halloran. "And the
night's made for sleep."

"But where will I sleep?" said the leprechaun.

66

O'Halhran's Luck

"In the half of my blanket," said Tim, "for are you not young
Rory, my nephew?

It was not what he could have wished, but he saw he could
do no otherwise. Once you start a tale, you must play up to the
tale. ^

But that was only the beginning/ as Tim O'Halloran soon
found out. For Tim O'Halloran had tasted many things before,
but not responsibility, and now responsibility was like a bit in
his mouth. It was not so bad the first week, while the leprechaun
was still ailing. But when, what with the food and the exercise,
he began to recover his strength, 'twas a wonder Tim O'Hal-
loran's hair did not turn gray overnight. He was not a bad crea-
ture, the leprechaun, but he had all the natural mischief of a
boy of twelve and, added to that, the craft and knowledge of
generations.

There was the three pipes and the pound of shag the lepre-
chaun stole from McGinnis— and the dead frog he slippea in
the foreman's tea— and the bottle of potheen he got hold of one
night when Tim had to hold his head in a bucket of water to
sober him up. A fortunate thing it was that St. Patrick had left
him no great powers, but at that he had enough to put the jump-
ing rheumatism on Shaun Kelly for two days— and it wasn't till
Tim threatened to deny him the use of his razor entirely that
he took off the spell.

That brought Rory to terms, for by now he'd come to take
a queer pleasure in playing the part of a boy and he did not
wish to have it altered.

Well, things went on like this for some time, and Tim O'Hal-
loran's savings grew; for whenever the drink was running he took
no part in it, for fear of mislaying his wits when it came to deal
with young Rory. And as it was with the drink, so was it with
other things— till Tim O'Halloran began to be known as a steady
man. And then, as it happened one morning, Tim O'Halloran
woke up early. The leprechaun had finished his shaving and was
sitting cross-legged, chuckling to himself.

"And what's your source of amusement so early in the day?'*
said Tim sleepily.

"Oh," said the leprechaun, "I'm just thinking of the rare hard
work we'll have when the line's ten miles farther on."

Stephen Vincent Benet

"And why should it be harder there than it is here?" said
Tim.

"Oh, nothing," said the leprechaun, "but those fools of sur-
veyors have laid out the line where there's hidden springs of
water. And when w$ start digging, there'll be the devil to pay."

"Do you know that for a fact?" said Tim.

"And why wouldn't I know it?" said the leprechaun. "Me
that can hear the waters run underground."

"Then what should we do?" said Tim.

"Shift the line half a mile to the west and you'd have a firm
roadbed," said the leprechaun.

Tim O'Halloran said no more at the time. But for all that, he
managed to get to the assistant engineer in charge of construction
at the noon hour. He could not have done it before, but now
he was known as a steady man. Nor did he tell where he got the
information— he put it on having seen a similar thing in Clon-
melly.

Well, the engineer listened to him and had a test made— and
sure enough, they struck the hidden spring. "That's clever work,
O'Halloran," said the engineer. "You've saved us time and money.
And now how would you like to be foreman of a gang?"

"I'd like it well," said Tim O'Halloran.

"Then you boss Gang Five from this day forward," said the
engineer. "And I'll keep my eye on you. I like a man that uses
his head."

"Can my nephew come with me," said Tim, "for, 'troth, he's
my responsibility?"

"He can," said the engineer, who had children of his own.

So Tim got promoted and the leprechaun along with him.
And the first day on the new work, young Rory stole the gold
watch from the engineer's pocket, because he liked the tick of
it, and Tim had to threaten him with fire and sword before he'd
put it back.

Well, things went on like this for another while, till finally
Tim woke up early on another morning and heard the lepre-
chaun laughing.

"And what are you laughing at?" he said.

"Oh, the more I see of mortal work, the less reason there is
to it," said the leprechaun. "For I've been watching the way
they get the rails up to us on the line. And they do it thus and so.

68

O'Halloratfs Luck

But if they did it so and thus, they could do it in half the time
with half the work."

"Is that so indeed?" said Tim O'Halloran, and he made him
explain it clearly. Then, after he'd swallowed his breakfast, he
was off to his friend the engineer.

"That's a clever idea, O'Halloran," said the engineer. "We'll
try it." And a week after that, Tim O'Halloran found himself
with a hundred men under him and more responsibility than he'd
ever had in his life. But it seemed little to him beside the respon-
sibility of the leprechaun, and now the engineer began to lend
him books to study and he studied them at nights while the lepre-
chaun snored in its blanket.

A man could rise rapidly in those days— and it was then Tim
O'Halloran got the start that was to carry him far. But he did
not know he was getting it, for his heart was near broken at the
time over Kitty Malone. She'd written him a letter or two when
he first came West, but now there were no more of them and
at last he got a word from her family telling him he should not
be disturbing Kitty with letters from a laboring man. That was
bitter for Tim O'Halloran, and he'd think about Kitty and the
Orangeman in the watches of the night and groan. And then,
one morning, he woke up after such a night and heard the lepre-
chaun laughing.

"And what are you laughing at now?" he said sourly. "For
my heart's near burst with its pain."

"I'm laughing at a man that would let a cold letter keep him
from his love, and him with pay in his pocket and the contract
ending the first," said the leprechaun.

Tim O'Halloran struck one hand in the palm of the other.

"By the piper, but you've the right of it, you queer little crea-
ture!" he said. " 'Tis back to Boston we go when this job's over."

It was laborer Tim O'Halloran that had come to the West, but
it was Railroadman Tim O'Halloran that rode back East in the
cars like a gentleman, with a free pass in his pocket and the prom-
ise of a job on the railroad that was fitting a married man. The
leprechaun, I may say, gave some trouble in the cars, more par-
ticularly when he bit a fat woman that called him a dear little
boy; but what with giving him peanuts all the way, Tim O'Hal-
loran managed to keep him fairly quieted.

When they got to Boston he fitted them both out in new

Stephen Vincent Eenet

clothes from top to toe. Then he gave the leprechaun some
money and told him to amuse himself for an hour or so while
he went to see Kitty Malone.

He walked into the Malones' flat as bold as brass, and there
sure enough, in the front room, were Kitty Malone and the
Orangeman. He was trying to squeeze her hand, and she refus-
ing, and it made Tim O'Halloran's blood boil to see that. But
when Kitty saw Tim O'Halloran she let out a scream.

"Oh, Tim! " she said. "Tim! And they told me you were dead
in the plains of the West!"

"And a great pity that he was not," said the Orangeman,
blowing out his chest with the brass buttons on it, "but a bad
penny always turns up."

"Bad penny is it, you brass-buttoned son of iniquity," said Tim
O'Halloran. "I have but the one question to put you. Will you
stand or will you run?"

"I'll stand as we stood at Boyne Water," said the Orange-
man, grinning ugly. "And whose backs did we see that day?"

"Oh, is that the tune?" said Tim O'Halloran. "Well, I'll give
you a tune to match it. Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?"

With that he was through the Orangeman's guard and
stretched him at the one blow, to the great consternation of the
Malones. The old woman started to screech and Pat Malone to
talk of policemen, but Tim O'Halloran silenced the both of
them.

"Would you be giving your daughter to an Orangeman that
works on the horsecars, when she might be marrying a future
railroad president?" he said. And with that he pulled his savings
out of his pocket and the letter that promised the job for a mar-
ried man. That quieted the Malones a little and, once they got
a good look at Tim O'Halloran, they began to change their
tune. So, after they'd got the Orangeman out of the house— and
he did not go willing, but he went as a whipped man must— Tim
O'Halloran recounted all of his adventures.

The tale did not lose in the telling, though he did not speak
of the leprechaun, for he thought that had better be left to a
later day; and at the end Pat Malone was offering him a cigar.
"But I find none upon me," said he with a wink at Tim, "so I'll
just run down to the corner."

"And I'll go with you," said Kitty's mother, "for if Mr.

70

O'Halloran's Luck

O'Halloran stays to supper— and he's welcome—there's a bit of
shopping to be done."

So the old folks left Tim O'Halloran and his Kitty alone. But
just as they were in the middle of their planning and contriving
for the future, there came a knock on the door.

"What's that?" said Kitty, but Tim O'Halloran knew well
enough and his heart sank within him. He opened the door— and
sure enough, it was the leprechaun.

"Well, Uncle Tim," said the creature, grinning, "Fm here."

Tim O'Halloran took a look at him as if he saw him for the
first time. He was dressed in new clothes, to be sure, but there
was soot on his face and his collar had thumbmarks on it already.
But that wasn't what made the difference. New clothes or old,
if you looked at him for the first time, you could see he was an
unchancy thing, and not like Christian souls.

"Kitty," he said, "Kitty darlint, I had not told you. But this is
my young nephew, Rory, that lives with me."

Well, Kitty welcomed the boy with her prettiest manners,
though Tim O'Halloran could see her giving him a side look
now and then. All the same, she gave him a slice of cake, and
he tore it apart with his fingers; but in the middle of it he pointed
to Kitty Malone.

"Have you made up your mind to marry my Uncle Tim?" he
said. "Faith, you'd better, for he's a grand catch."

"Hold your tongue, young Rory," said Tim O'Halloran an-
grily, and Kitty blushed red. But then she took the next words
out of his mouth.

"Let the gossoon be, Tim O'Halloran," she said bravely. "Why
shouldn't he speak his mind? Yes, Roryeen— it's I that will be
your aunt in the days to come— and a proud woman too."

"Well, that's good," said the leprechaun, cramming the last
of the cake in his mouth, "for I'm thinking you'll make a good
home for us, once you're used to my ways:"

"Is that to be the way of it, Tim?" said Kitty Malone very
quietly, but Tim O'Halloran looked at her and knew what was
in her mind. And he had the greatest impulse in the world to
deny the leprechaun and send him about his business. And yet,
when he thought of it, he knew that he could not do it, not even
if it meant the losing of Kitty Malone.

71

Stephen Vincent Benet

"I'm afraid that must be the way of it, Kitty," he said with a
groan.

"Then I honor you for it," said Kitty, with her eyes like stars.
She went up to the leprechaun and took his hard little hand.
"Will you live with us, young Rory?" she said. "For we'd be
glad to have you."

"Thank you kindly, Kitty Malone— O'Halloran to be," said
the leprechaun. "And you're lucky, Tim O'Halloran— lucky your-
self and lucky in your wife. For if you had denied me then, your
luck would have left you— and if she had denied me then,
'twould be but half luck for you both. But now the luck will
stick to you the rest of your lives. And I'm wanting another
piece of cake," said he.

"Well, it's a queer lad you are," said Kitty Malone, but she
went for the cake. The leprechaun swung his legs and looked
at Tim O'Halloran. "I wonder what keeps my hands off you,"
said the latter with a groan.

"Fie!" said the leprechaun, grinning, "and would you be lift-
ing the hand to your one nephew? But tell me one thing, Tim
O'Halloran, was this wife you're to take ever in domestic serv-
ice?"

"And what if she was?" said Tim O'Halloran, firing up. "Who
thinks the worse of her for that?"

"Not I," said the leprechaun, "for I've learned about mortal
labor since I came to this country— and it's an honest thing. But
tell me one thing more. Do you mean to serve this wife of yours
and honor her through the days of your wedded life?"

"Such is my intention," said Tim, "though what business it
is of-"

"Never mind," said the leprechaun. "Your shoelace is undone,
bold man. Command me to tie it up."

"Tie up my shoe, you black-hearted, villainous little anatomy!"
thundered Tim O'Halloran, and the leprechaun did so. Then
he jumped to his feet and skipped about the room.

"Free! Free!" he piped. "Free at last! For I've served the
servants of servants and the doom has no power on me longer.
Free, Tim O'Halloran! O'Halloran's Luck is free!"

Tim O'Halloran stared at him, dumb; and even as he stared,
the creature seemed to change. He was small, to be sure, and
boyish— but you could see the unchancy look leave him and the

7*

VHallorarfs Luck

Christian soul come into his eyes. That was a queer thing to
be seen, and a great one too.

"Well," said Tim O'Halloran in a sober voice, "I'm glad for
you, Rory. For now you'll be going back to Clonmelly, no
doubt—and faith, you've earned the right."

The leprechaun shook his head.

"Clonmelly's a fine, quiet place," said he, "but this country's
bolder. I misdoubt it's something in the air— you will not have
noticed it, but I've grown two inches and a half since first I
met you, and I feel myself growing still. No, it's off to the
mines of the West I am, to follow my natural vocation— for they
say there are mines out there you could mislay all Dublin Castle
in— and wouldn't I like to try! But speaking of that, Tim O'Hal-
loran," he said, "I was not .quite honest with you about the pot
of gold. You'll find your share behind the door when I've gone.
And now good day and long life to you!"

"But, man dear," said Tim O'Halloran, "'tis not good-by!"
For it was then he realized the affection that was in him for the
queer little creature.

"No, 'tis not good-by," said the leprechaun. "When you
christen your first son, I'll be at his cradle, though you may not
see me— and so with your sons' sons and their sons, for O'Hal-
loran's luck's just begun. But we'll part for the present now. For
now I'm a Christian soul, I've work to do in the world."

"Wait a minute," said Tim O'Halloran. "For you would not
know, no doubt, and you such a new soul. And no doubt you'll
be seeing the priest— but a layman can do it in an emergency and
I think this is one. I dare not have you leave me— and you not
even baptized."

And with that he made the sign of the cross and baptized
the leprechaun. He named him Rory Patrick.

" 'Tis not done with all the formalities," he said at the end,
"but I'll defend the intention."

"I'm grateful to you," said the leprechaun. "And if there was
a debt to be paid, you've paid it back and more."

And with that he was gone somehow, arid Tim O'Halloran
was alone in the room. He rubbed his eyes. But there was a lit-
tle sack behind the door, where the leprechiun had left it—and
Kitty was coming in with a slice of cake on a plate.

73

Stephen Vincent Benet

"Well, Tim," she said, "and where's that young nephew of
yours?"

So he took her into his arms and told her the whole story.
And how much of it she believed, I do not know. But there's
one remarkable circumstance. Ever since then, there's always
been one Rory O'Halloran in the family, and that one luckier
than the lave. And when Tim O'Halloran got to be a railroad
president, why, didn't he call his private car "The Leprechaun"?
For that matter, they said, when he took his business trips there'd
be a small boyish-looking fellow would be with him now and
again. He'd turn up from nowhere, at some odd stop or other,
and he'd be let in at once, while the great of the railroad
world were kept waiting in the vestibule. And after a while,
therc'd be singing from inside the car.

THE DIE-HARD

Where was a town called Shady, Georgia, and a time that's
gone, and a boy named Jimmy Williams who was curious about
things. Just a few years before the turn of the century it was,
and that seems far away now. But Jimmy Williams was living
in it, anc it didn't seem far away to him.

It was a small town, Shady, and sleepy, though it had two trains
a day and they were putting through a new spur to Vickery
Junction.

They'd dedicated the War Memorial in the Square, but, on
market days, you'd still see oxcarts on Main Street. And once,
when Jimmy Williams was five, there'd been a light fall of snow
and the whole town had dropped its business and gone out to see
it. He could still remember the feel of the snow in his hands,
for it was the only snow he'd ever touched or seen.

He was a bright boy—maybe a little too bright for his age.
He'd think about a thing till it seemed real to him—and that's
a dangerous gift. His father was the town doctor, and his father
would try to show him the difference, but Doctor Williams
was a right busy man. And the other Williams children were a
good deal younger and his mother was busy with them. So Jimmy

74

The Die-Hard

had more time to himself than most boys— and youth's a dreamy
time.

I reckon it was that got him interested in Old Man Cappalow,
in the first place. Every town has its legends and characters,
and Old Man Cappalow was one of Shady's. He lived out of
town, on the old Vincey place, all alone except for a light-col-
ored Negro named Sam that he'd brought from Virginia with
him; and the local Negroes wouldn't pass along that road at
night. That was partly because of Sam, who was supposed to be
a conjur, but mostly on account of Old Man Cappalow. He'd
come in the troubled times, right after the end of the war, and
ever since then he'd kept himself to himself. Except that once
a month he went down to the bank and drew money that came
in a letter from Virginia. But how he spent it, nobody knew.
Except that he had a treasure— every boy in Shady knew that.

Now and then, a gang of them would get bold and they'd
rattle sticks along the sides of his fence and yell, "Old Man Cap-
palow! Where's your money?" But then the light-colored Negro,
Sam, would come out on the porch and look at them, and they'd
run away. They didn't want to be conjured, and you couldn't
be sure. But on the way home, they'd speculate and wonder
about the treasure, and each time they speculated and wondered,
it got bigger to them.

Some said it was the last treasure of the Confederacy, saved
right up to the end to build a new Alabama, and that Old Man
Cappalow had sneaked it out of Richmond when the city fell and
kept it for himself; only now he didn't dare spend it, for the mark
of Cain was on every piece. And some said it came from the sea
islands, where the pirates had left it, protected by h'ants and
devils, and Old Man Cappalow had had to fight devils for it six
days and six nights before he could take it away. And if you
looked inside his shirt, you could see the long white marks where
the devils had clawed him. Well, sir, some said one thing and some
said another. But they all agreed it was there, and it got to be a
byword among the boys of the town.

It used to bother Jimmy Williams tremendously. Because he
knew his father worked hard, and yet sometimes he'd only get
fifty cents a visit, and often enough he'd get nothing. And he
knew his mother worked hard, and that most folks in Shady

75

Stephen Vincent Benet

weren't rich. And yet, all the time, there was that treasure, sitting
out at Old Man Cappalow's. He didn't mean to steal it exactly. I
don't know just what he did intend to do about it. But the idea
of it bothered him and stayed at the back of his mind. Till, finally,
one summer when he was turned thirteen, he started making ex-
peditions to the Cappalow place.

He'd go in the cool of the morning or the cool of the after-
noon, and sometimes he'd be fighting Indians and Yankees on the
way, because he was still a boy, and sometimes he was thinking
what he'd be when he grew up, for he was starting to be a man.
But he never told the other boys what he was doing— and that
was the mixture of both. He'd slip from the road, out of sight of
the house, and go along by the fence. Then he'd lie down in the
grass and the weeds, and look at the house.

It had been quite a fine place once, but now the porch was
sagging and there were mended places in the roof and paper
pasted over broken windowpanes. But that didn't mean much to
Jimmy Williams; he was used to houses looking like that. There
was a garden patch at the side, neat and well-kept, and sometimes
he'd see the Negro, Sam, there, working. But what he looked at
mostly was the side porch. For Old Man Cappalow would be sit-
ting there.

He sat there, cool and icy-looking, in his white linen suit, on
his cane chair, and now and then he'd have a leather-bound book
in his hand, though he didn't often read it. He didn't move much,
but he sat straight, his hands on his knees and his black eyes alive.
There was something about his eyes that reminded Jimmy Wil-
liams of the windows of the house. They weren't blind, indeed
they were bright, but there was something living behind them
that wasn't usual. You didn't expect them to be so black, with his
white hair. Jimmy Williams had seen a governor once, on Memor-
ial Day, but the governor didn't look half as fine. This man was
like a man made of ice—ice in the heat of the South. You could see
he was old, but you couldn't tell how old, or whether he'd ever
die.

Once in a great while he'd come out and shoot at a mark. The
mark was a kind of metal shield, nailed up on a post, and it had
been painted once, but the paint had worn away. He'd hold the
pistol very steady, and the bullets would go "whang, whang" on
the metal, very loud in the stillness. Jimmy Williams would watch

The Die-Hard

him and wonder if that was the way he'd fought with his devils,
and speculate about all kinds of things.

All the same, he was only a boy, and though it was fun and
scary, to get so near Old Man Cappalow without being seen, and
he'd have a grand tale to tell the others, if he ever decided to tell
it, he didn't see any devils or any treasure. And probably he'd
have given the whole business up in the end, boylike, if some-
thing hadn't happened.

He was lying in the weeds by the fence, one warm afternoon,
and, boylike, he fell asleep. And he was just in the middle of a
dream where Old Man Cappalow was promising him a million
dollars if he'd go to the devil to get it, when he was wakened by
a rustle in the weeds and a voice that said, "White boy."

Jimmy Williams rolled over and froze. For there, just half a
dozen steps away from him, was the light-colored Negro, Sam, in
his blue jeans, the way he worked in the garden patch, but look-
ing like the butler at the club for all that.

I reckon if Jimmy Williams had been on his feet, he'd have run.
But he wasn't on his feet. And he told himself he didn't mean to
run, though his heart began to pound.

"White boy," said the light-colored Negro, "Marse John see
you from up at the house. He send you his obleegances and say
will you step that way." He spoke in a light, sweet voice, and
there wasn't a thing in his manners you could have objected to.
But just for a minute, Jimmy Williams wondered if he was being
conjured. And then he didn't care. Because he was going to do
what no boy in Shady had ever done. He was going to walk
into Old Man Cappalow's house and not be scared. He wasn't
going to be scared, though his heart kept pounding.

He scrambled to his feet and followed the line of the fence till
he got to the driveway, the light-colored Negro just a little be-
hind him. And when they got near the porch, Jimmy Williams
stopped and took a leaf and wiped off his shoes, though he
couldn't have told you why. The Negro stood watching while
he did it, perfectly at ease. Jimmy Williams could see that the
Negro thought better of him for wiping off his shoes, but not
much. And that made him mad, and he wanted to say, "I'm no
white trash. My father's a doctor," but he knew better than to
say it. He just wiped his shoes and the Negro stood and waited.

77

Stephen Vincent Bentt

Then the Negro took him around to the side porch, and there
was Old Man Cappalow, sitting in his cane chair.

"White boy here, Marse John," said the Negro in his low,
sweet voice.

The old man lifted his head, and his black eyes looked at Jimmy
Williams. It was a long stare and it went to Jimmy Williams'
backbone.

"Sit down, boy," he said, at last, and his voice was friendly
enough, but Jimmy Williams obeyed it. "You can go along, Sam,"
he said, and Jimmy Williams sat on the edge of a cane chair and
tried to feel comfortable. He didn't do very well at it, but he
tried.

"What's your name, boy?" said the old man, after a while.

"Jimmy Williams, sir," said Jimmy Williams. "I mean James
Williams, Junior, sir."

"Williams," said the old man, and his black eyes glowed.
"There was a Colonel Williams with the Sixty-fifth Virginia— or
was it the Sixty-third? He came from Fairfax County and was
quite of my opinion that we should have kept to primogeniture,
in spite of Thomas Jefferson. But I doubt if you are kin."

"No, sir," said Jimmy Williams. "I mean, Father was with
the Ninth Georgia. And he was a private. They were aiming
to make him a corporal, he says, but they never got around
to it. But he fit—he fought lots of Yankees. He fit tons of 'em.
And I've seen his uniform. But now he's a doctor instead."

The old man seemed to look a little queer at that. UA doctor?"
he said. "Well, some very reputable gentlemen have practiced
medicine. There need be no loss of standing."

"Yes, sir," said Jimmy Williams. Then he couldn't keep it
back any longer: "Please, sir, were you ever clawed by the
devil?" he said.

"Ha-hrrm!" said the old man, looking startled. "You're a queer
boy. And suppose I told you I had been?"

"I'd believe you," said Jimmy Williams, and the old man
laughed. He did it as if he wasn't used to it, but he did it.

"Clawed by the devil!" he said. "Ha-hrrm! You're a bold boy.
I didn't know they grew them nowadays. I'm surprised." But
he didn't look, angry, as Jimmy Williams had expected him to.

"Well," said Jimmy Williams, "if you had been, I thought

The Die-Hard

maybe you'd tell me about it. I'd be right interested. Or mayb«
let me see the clawmarks. I mean, if they're there."

"I can't show you those," said the old man, "though they're
deep and wide." And he stared fiercely at Jimmy Williams.
"But you weren't Afraid to come here and you wiped your shoes
when you came. So I'll show you something else." He rose
and was tall. "Come into the house," he said.

So Jimmy Williams got up and went into the house with
him. It was a big, cool, dim room they went into, and Jimmy
Williams didn't see much at first. But then his eyes began to
get used to the dimness.

Well, there were plenty of houses in Shady where the rooms
were cool and dim and the sword hung over the mantelpiece and
the furniture was worn and old. It wasn't that made the differ-
ence. But stepping into this house was somehow like stepping
back into the past, though Jimmy Williams couldn't have put
it that way. He just knew it was full of beautiful things and
grand things that didn't quite fit it, and yet all belonged to-
gether. And they knew they were grand and stately, and yet
there was dust in the air and a shadow on the wall. It was peace-
ful enough and handsome enough, yet it didn't make Jimmy
Williams feel comfortable, though he couldn't have told you
why.

"Well," said the old man, moving about among shadows, "how
do you like it, Mr. Williams?"

"It's—I never saw anything like it," said Jimmy Williams.

The old man seemed pleased. "Touch the things, boy," he said.
"Touch the things. They don't mind being touched."

So Jimmy Williams went around the room, staring at the
miniatures and the pictures, and picking up one thing or an-
other and putting it down. He was very careful and he didn't
break anything. And there were some wonderful things. There
was a game of chess on a table— carved-ivory pieces— a game that
people had started, but hadn't finished. He didn't touch those,
though he wanted to, because he felt the people might not like
it when they came back to finish their game. And yet, at the same
time, he felt that if they ever did come back, they'd be dead,
and that made him feel queerer. There were silver-mounted pis-
tols, long-barreled, on a desk by a big silver inkwell; there was

79

Stephen Vincent Benet

a quill pen made of a heron's feather, and a silver sandbox be-
side it— there were all sorts of curious and interesting things.
Finally Jimmy Williams stopped in front of a big, tall clock.

"I'm sorry, sir/' he said, ubut I don't think that's the right
time."

"Oh, yes, it is," said the old man. "It's always the right time."

"Yes, sir," said Jimmy Williams, "but it isn't running."

"Of course not," said the old man. "They say you can't put
the clock back, but you can. I've put it back and I mean to keep
it back. The others can do as they please. I warned them— I
warned them in 1850, when they accepted the Compromise. I
warned them there could be no compromise. Well, they would
not be warned."

"Was that bad of them, sir?" asked Jimmy Williams.

"It was misguided of them," said the old man. "Misguided of
them all." He seemed to be talking more to himself than to
Jimmy, but Jimmy Williams couldn't help listening. "There can
be no compromise with one's class or one's breeding or one's
sentiments, the old man said. "Afterwards— well, there were
gentlemen I knew who went to Guatemala or elsewhere. I do
not blame them for it. But mine is another course." He paused
and glanced at the clock. Then he spoke in a different voice. "I
beg your pardon," he said. "I fear I was growing heated. You
will excuse me. I generally take some refreshment around this
time in the afternoon. Perhaps you will join me, Mr. Williams?"

It didn't seem to Jimmy Williams as if the silver hand bell
in the old man's hand had even stopped ringing before the Negro,
Sam, came in with a tray. He had a queer kind of old-fashioned
long coat on now, and a queer old-fashioned cravat, but his
pants were the pants of his blue jeans. Jimmy Williams noticed
that, but Old Man Cappalow didn't seem to notice.

"Yes," he said, "there are many traitors. Men I held in the
greatest esteem have betrayed their class and their system. They
have accepted ruin and domination in the name of advancement.
But we will not speak of them now." He took the frosted silver
cup from the tray and motioned to Jimmy Williams that the small
fluted glass was for him. "I shall ask you to rise, Mr. Williams,"
he said. "We shall drink a toast." He paused for a moment,
standing straight. "To the Confederate States of America and
damnation to all her enemies!" he said.

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The Die-Hard

Jimmy Williams drank. He'd never drunk any wine before,
except blackberry cordial, and this wine seemed to him power-
fully thin and sour. But he felt grown up as he drank it, and
that was a fine feeling.

"Every night of my life," said the old man, "I drink that toast.
And usually I drink it alone. But I am glad of your company,
Mr. Williams."

"Yes, sir," said Jimmy Williams, but all the same, he felt queer.
For drinking the toast, somehow, had been very solemn, almost
like being in church. But in church you didn't exactly pray for
other people's damnation, though the preacher might get right
excited over sin.

Well, then the two of them sat down again, and Old Man
Cappalow began to talk of the great plantation days and the
world as it used to be. Of course, Jimmy Williams had heard
plenty of talk of that sort. But this was different. For the old
man talked of those days as if they were still going on, not as if
they were past. And as he talked, the whole room seemed to
join in, with a thousand, sighing, small voices, stately and clear,
till Jimmy Williams didn't know whether he was on his head
or his heels and it seemed quite natural to him to look at the
fresh, crisp Richmond newspaper on the desk and see it was
dated "June 14, 1859" instead of "June 14, 1897." Well, maybe
it was the wine, though he'd only had a thimbleful. But when
Jimmy Williams went out into the sun again, he felt changed,
and excited too. For he knew about Old Man Cappalow now,
and he was just about the grandest person in the world.

The Negro went a little behind him, all the way to the gate,
on soft feet. When they got there, the Negro opened the gate
and spoke.

"Young marster," he said, "I don't know why Marse John
took in his head to ask you up to the house. But we lives private,
me and Marse John. We lives very private." There was a curious
pleading in his voice.

"I don't tell tales," said Jimmy Williams, and kicked at the
fence.

"Yes, sir," said the Negro, and he seemed relieved. "I knew
you one of the right ones. I knew that. But we'se living very
private till the big folks come back. We don't want no tales

81

Stephen Vincent Benet

;pread before. And then we'se going back to Otranto, the way
kve should."

"I know about Otranto. He told me," said Jimmy Williams,
:atching his breath.

"Otranto Marse John's plantation in Verginny," said the
^Tegro, as if he hadn't heard. "He owns the river and the valley,
:he streams and the hills. We got four hundred field hands at
Dtranto and stables for sixty horses. But we can't go back there
ill the big folks come back. Marse John say so, and he always
;peak the truth. But they's goin' to come back, a-shootin' and
Dirootin', they pistols at they sides. And every day I irons his
Richmond paper for him and he reads about the old times. We
jot boxes and boxes of papers down in the cellar." He paused.
'And if he say the old days come back, it bound to be so," he
;aid. Again his voice held that curious pleading, "You remember,
foung marster," he said. "You remember, white boy."

"I told you I didn't tell tales," said Jimmy Williams. But after
hat, things were different for him. Because there's one thing
ibout a boy that age that most grown people forget. A boy that
ige can keep a secret in a way that's perfectly astonishing. And
ic can go through queer hells and heavens you'll never hear a
tvord about, not even if you got him or bore him.

It was that way with Jimmy Williams; it mightn't have been
:or another boy. It began like a game, and then it stopped being
i game. For, of course, he went back to Old Man Cappalow's.
\nd the Negro, Sam, would show him up to the house and he'd
;it in the dim room with the old man and drink the toast in the
kvine; And it wasn't Old Man Cappalow any more; it was Col.
fohn Leonidas Cappalow, who'd raised and equipped his own
•egiment and never surrendered. Only, when the time was ripe,
ie was going back to Otranto, and the old days would bloom
igain, and Jimmy Williams would be part of them.

When he shut his eyes at night, he could see Otranto and its
porches, above the rolling river, great and stately; he could hear
:he sixty horses stamping in their stalls. He could see the pretty
jirls, in their wide skirts, coming down the glassy, proud stair-
:ases; he could see the fine, handsome gentlemen who ruled the
jarth and the richness of it without a thought of care. It was
dl like a storybook to Jimmy Williams—a storybook come true.

82

The Die-Hard

And more than anything he'd ever wanted in his life, he wanted
to be part of it.

The only thing was, it was hard to fit the people he really
knew into the story. Now and then Colonel Cappalow would
ask him gravely if he knew anyone else in Shady who was worthy
of being trusted with the secret. Well, there were plenty of boys
like Bob Miller and Tommy Vine, but somehow you couldn't
see them in the dim room. They'd fit in, all right, when the
great days came back—they'd have to— but meanwhile— well, they
might just take it for a tale. And then there was Carrie, the cook.
She'd have to be a slave again, of course, and though Jimmy
Williams didn't imagine that she'd mind, now and then he had
just a suspicion that she might. He didn't ask her about it, but he
had the suspicion.

It was even hard to fit Jimmy's father in, with his little black
bag and his rumpled clothes and his laugh. Jimmy couldn't quite
see his father going up the front steps of Otranto— not because
he wasn't a gentleman or grand enough, but because it just didn't
happen to be his kind of place. And then, his father didn't really
hate anybody, as far as Jimmy knew. But you had to hate people
a good deal, if you wanted to follow Colonel Cappalow. You
had to shoot at the mark and feel you were really shooting the
enemy's colors down. You had to believe that even people like
General Lee had been wrong, because they hadn't held out in
the mountains and fought till everybody died. Well, it was hard
to believe a wrong thing of General Lee, and Jimmy Williams
didn't quite manage it. He was willing to hate the Yankees and
the Republicans— hate them hot and hard— but there weren't any
of them in Shady. Well, come to think of it, there was Mr.
Rosen, at the dry-goods store, and Mr. Ailey, at the mill. They
didn't look very terrible and he was used to them, but he tried
to hate them all he could. He got hold of the Rosen boy one day
and rocked him home, but the Rosen boy cried, and Jimmy felt
mean about it. But if he'd ever seen a real live Republican, with
horns and a tail, he'd have done him a mortal injury— he felt sur&
he would.

And so the summer passed, and by the end of the summer
Jimmy didn't feel quite sure which was real— the times now or
the times Colonel Cappalow talked about. For he'd dream about

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Stephen Vincent Eenet

Otranto at night and think of it during the day. He'd ride back
there on a black horse, at Colonel Cappalow's left, and his saber
would be long and shining. But if there was a change in him,
there was a change in Colonel Cappalow too. He was a lot more
excitable than he used to be, and when he talked to Jimmy
sometimes, he'd call him by other names, and when he shot at
the mark with the enemy's colors on it, his eyes would blaze. So
by that, and by the news he read out of the old papers, Jimmy
suddenly got to know that the time was near at hand. They had
the treasure all waiting, and soon they'd be ready to rise. And
Colonel Cappalow filled out Jimmy Williams' commission as cap-
tain in the army of the New Confederate States of America and
presented it to him, with a speech. Jimmy Williams felt very
proud of that commission, and hid it under a loose brick in his
fireplace chimney, where it would be safe.

Well, then it came to the plans, and when Jimmy Williams
first heard about them, he felt a little surprised. There were maps
spread all over the big desk in the dim room now, and Colonel
Cappalow moved pins and showed Jimmy strategy. And that
"was very exciting, and like a game. But first of all, they'd have
to give a signal and strike a blow. You had to do that first, and
then the country would rise. Well, Jimmy Williams could see
the reason in that.

They were going into Shady and capture the post office first,
and then the railroad station and, after that, they'd dynamite the
railroad bridge to stop the trains, and Colonel Cappalow would
read a proclamation from the steps of the courthouse. The only
part Jimmy Williams didn't like about it was killing the post-
master and the station agent, in case they resisted. Jimmy Wil-
liams felt pretty sure they would resist, particularly the station
agent, who was a mean customer. And, somehow, killing peo-
ple you knew wasn't quite like killing Yankees and Republicans.
The thought of it shook something in Jimmy's mind and made
it waver. But after that they'd march on Washington, and every-
thing would be all right.

All the same, he'd sworn his oath and he was a commissioned
officer in the army of the New Confederate States. So, when
Colonel Cappalow gave him the pistol that morning, with the
bullets and the powder, and explained how he was to keep watch
at the door of the post office and shoot to kill if he had to,

The Die-Hard

Jimmy said, "I shall execute the order, sir," the way he'd been
taught. After that, they'd go for the station agent and he'd have
a chance for a lot more shooting. And it was all going to be for
noon the next day.

Somehow, Jimmy Williams couldn't quite believe it was going
to be for noon the next day, even when he was loading the pistol
in the woodshed of the Williams house, late that afternoon. And
yet he saw, with a kind of horrible distinctness, that it was going
to be. It might sound crazy to some, but not to him— Colonel
Cappalow was a sure shot; he'd seen him shoot at the mark. He
could see him shooting, now, and he wondered if a bullet went
"whang" when it hit a man. And, just as he was fumbling with
the bullets, the woodshed door opened suddenly and there was
his father.

Well, naturally, Jimmy dropped the pistol and jumped. The
pistol didn't explode, for he'd forgotten it needed a cap. But with
that moment something seemed to break inside Jimmy Williams.
For it was the first time he'd really been afraid and ashamed in
front of his father, and now he was ashamed and afraid. And
then it was like waking up out of an illness, for his father saw
his white face and said, "What's the matter, son?" and the words
began to come out of his mouth.

"Take it easy, son," said his father, but Jimmy couldn't take
it easy. He told all about Otranto and Old Man Cappalow and
hating the Yankees and killing the postmaster, all jumbled up and
higgledy-piggledy. But Doctor Williams made sense of it. At first
he smiled a little as he listened, but after a while he stopped smil-
ing, and there was anger in his face. And when Jimmy was quite
through, "Well, son," he said, "I reckon we've let you run wild.
But I never thought . . ." He asked Jimmy a few quick questions,
mostly about the dynamite, and he seemed relieved when Jimmy
told him they were going to get it from the men who were
blasting for the new spur track.

"And now, son," he said, "when did you say this massacre was
going to start?"

"Twelve o'clock at the post office," said Jimmy. "But we
weren't going to massacre. It was just the folks that resisted—"

Doctor Williams made a sound in his throat. "Well," he said,
"you and I are going to take a ride in the country, Jimmy. No,
we won't tell your mother, I think."

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Stephen Vwccni Benet

It was the last time Jimmy Williams went out to Old Man
Cappalow's, and he remembered that. His father didn't say a
word all the way, but once he felt in his back pocket for some-
thing he'd taken out of the drawer of his desk, and Jimmy re-
membered that too.

When they drove up in front of the house, his father gave
the reins to Jimmy. "Stay in the buggy, Jimmy," he said. "I'll
settle this.

Then he got out of the buggy, a little awkwardly, for he was
a heavy man, and Jimmy heard his feet scrunch on the gravel.
Jimmy knew again, as he saw him go up the steps, that he
wouldn't have fitted in Otranto, and somehow he was glad.

The Negro, Sam, opened the door.

"Tell Colonel Cappalow Doctor Williams wishes to speak
with him," said Jimmy's father, and Jimmy could see that his
father's neck was red.

"Colonel Cappalow not receivin'," said Sam, in his light sweet
voice, but Jimmy's father spoke again.

"Tell Colonel Cappalow," he said. He didn't raise his voice,
but there was something in it that Jimmy had never heard in
that voice before. Sam looked for a moment and went inside the
house.

Then Colonel Cappalow came to the door himself. There was
red from the evening sun on his white suit and his white hair,
and he looked tall and proud, He looked first at Jimmy's father
and then at Jimmy. And his voice said, quite coldly, and reason-
ably and clearly, "Traitor! All traitors!"

"You'll oblige me by leaving the boy out of it," said Jimmy's
father heavily. "This is 1897, sir, not 1860," and for a moment
there was something light and heady and dangerous in the air
between them. Jimmy knew what his father had in his pocket
then, and he sat stiff in the buggy and prayed for time to change
and things to go away.

Then Colonel Cappalow put his hand to his forehead. "I beg
your pardon, sir," he said, in an altered voice. "You mentioned
a date?"

"I said it was 1897," said Doctor Williams, standing square
and stocky, "I said Marse Robert's dead— God bless him!— and
Jefferson Davis too. And before he died, Marse Robert said we
ought to be at peace. The ladies can keep up the war as long as

86

The Die-Hard

they see fit— that's their privilege. But men ought to act like men/*
He stared for a moment at the high-chinned, sculptural face.
"Why, damn your soul!" he said, and it was less an oath than
a prayer. "I was with the Ninth Georgia; I went through three
campaigns. We fought till the day of Appomattox and it was
we-uns' fight." Something rough and from the past had slipped
back into his* speech— something, too, that Jimmy Williams had
never heard in it before. "We didn't own niggers or plantations—
the men I fought with. But when it was over, we reckoned it
was over and we'd build up the land. Well, we've had a hard time
to do it, but we're hoeing corn. We've got something better to
do than fill up a boy with a lot of magnolious notions and aim
to shoot up a postmaster because there's a Republican President.
My God," he said, and again it was less an oath than a prayer,
"it was bad enough getting licked when you thought you couldn't
be—but when I look at you— well, hate stinks when it's kept too
long in the barrel, no matter how you dress it up and talk fine
about it. I'm warning you. You keep your hands off my boy.
Now, that's enough."

"Traitors," said the old man vaguely, "all traitors." Then a
change came over his face and he stumbled forward as if he had
stumbled over a stone. The Negro and the white man both sprang
to him, but it was the Negro who caught him and lowered him
to the ground. Then Jimmy Williams heard his father calling
for his black bag, and his limbs were able to move again.

Doctor Williams came out of the bedroom, drying his hands
on a towel. His eyes fell upon Jimmy Williams, crouched in
front of the chessboard.

"He's all right, son," he said. "At least— he's not all right. But
he wasn't in pain."

Jimmy Williams shivered a little. "I heard him talking," he
said difficultly. "I heard him calling people things."

"Yes," said his father. "Well, you mustn't think too much of
that. You see, a man—" He stopped and began again, "Well, I've
no doubt he was considerable of a man once. Only— well, there's
a Frenchman calls it a fixed idea. You let it get a hold of you . . .
and the way he was brought up. He got it in his head, you see
—he couldn't stand it that he might have been wrong about any-

87

Stephen Vincent Eenet

thing. And the hate— well, it's not for a man. Not when it's like
that. Now, where's that Nigra?"

Jimmy Williams shivered again; he did not want Sam back
in the room. But when Sam came, he heard the Negro answer,
politely.

"H'm," said Doctor Williams. "Twice before. He should have
had medical attention."

"Marse John don't believe in doctors," said the low, sweet
voice.

"He wouldn't," said Doctor Williams briefly. "Well, I'll take
the boy home now. But I'll have to come back. I'm coroner for
this county. You understand about that?"

"Yes, sir," said the low, sweet voice, "I understand about that."
Then the Negro looked at the doctor. "Marse Williams," he said,
"I wouldn't have let him do it. He thought he was bound to. But
I wouldn't have let him do it."

"Well," said the doctor. He thought, and again said, "Well."
Then he said, "Are there any relatives?"

"I take him back to Otranto," said the Negro. "It belongs to
another gentleman now, but Marse John got a right to lie there.
That's Verginny law, he told me."

"So it is," said the doctor. "I'd forgotten that."

"He don't want no relatives," said the Negro. "He got nephews
and nieces and all sorts of kin. But they went against him and
he cut them right out of his mind. He don't want no relatives."
He paused. "He cut everything out of his mind but the old days,"
he said. "He start doing it right after the war. That's why we
come here. He don't want no part nor portion of the present
days. And they send him money from Verginny, but he only
spend it the one way— except when we buy this place." He
smiled as if at a secret.

"But how?" said the doctor, staring at furniture and pictures.

"Jus' one muleload from Otranto," said the Negro, softly.
"And I'd like to see anybody cross Marse John in the old days."
He coughed. 'They's just one thing, Marse Williams," he said,
in his suave voice. "I ain't skeered of sittin' up with Marse John.
I always been with him. But it's the money."

"What money?" said Doctor Williams. "Well, that will go
through the courts—"

"No, sir," said the Negro patiently. "I mean Marse John's spe-

88

The Die Hard

cial money that he spend the other money for. He got close to
a millyum dollars in that blind closet under the stairs. And no-
body dare come for it, as long as he's strong and spry. But now
I don't know. I don't know."

"Well," said Doctor Williams, receiving the incredible fact,
"I suppose we'd better see."

It was as the Negro had said— a blind closet under the stairs,
opened by an elementary sliding catch.

"There's the millyum dollars," said the Negro as the door
swung back. He held the cheap glass lamp high— the wide roomy
closet was piled from floor to ceiling with stacks of printed
paper.

"H'm," said Doctor Williams. "Yes, I thought so. ... Have
you ever seen a million dollars, son?"

"No, sir," said Jimmy Williams.

"Well, take a look," said his father. He slipped a note from a
packet, and held it under the lamp.

"It says 'One Thousand Dollars,' " said Jimmy Williams. "Oh!"

"Yes," said his father gently. "And it also says 'Confederate
States of America'. . . . You don't need to worry, Sam. The
money's perfectly safe. Nobody will come for it. Except, maybe,
museums."

"Yes, Marse Williams," said Sam unquestioningly, accepting
the white man's word, now he had seen and judged the white
man. He shut the closet.

On his way out, the doctor paused for a moment and looked
at the Negro. He might have been thinking aloud— it seemed that
way to Jimmy Williams.

"And why did you do it?" he said. "Well, that's something
we'll never know. And what are you going to do, once you've
taken him back to Otranto?"

"I got my arrangements, thank you, sir," said the Negro.

"I haven't a doubt of it," said Jimmy Williams' father. "But I
wish I knew what they were."

"I got my arrangements, gentlemen," the Negro repeated, in
his low, sweet voice. Then they left him, holding the lamp, with
his tall shadow behind him.

"Maybe I oughtn't to have left him," said Jimmy Williams'
father, after a while, as the buggy jogged along. "He's perfectly

Stephen Vincent Benet

capable of setting fire to the place and burning it up as a sort of
a funeral pyre. And maybe that wouldn't be a bad thing," he
added, after a pause. Then he said, "Did you notice the chess-
men? I wonder who played that game. It was stopped in the
middle." Then, after a while, he said, "I remember the smell of
the burning woods in the Wilderness. And I remember Recon-
struction. But Marse Robert was right, all the same. You can't
go back to the past. And hate's the most expensive commodity in
the world. It's never been anything else, and I've seen a lot of it.
We've got to realize that— got too much of it, still, as a nation."

But Jimmy Williams was hardly listening. He was thinking it
was good to be alone with his father in a buggy at night and
good they didn't have to live in Otranto after all.

JOHNNY PYE AND THE FOOL-KILLER

You don't hear so much about the Fool-Killer these days, but
when Johnny Pye was a boy there was a good deal of talk
about him. Some said he was one kind of person, and some said
another, but most people agreed that he came around fairly regu-
lar. Or, it seemed so to Johnny Pye. But then, Johnny was an
adopted child, which is, maybe, why he took it so hard.

The miller and his wife had offered to raise him, after his own
folks died, and that was a good deed on their part. But, as soon
as he lost his baby teeth and started acting the way most boys
act, they began to come down on him like thunder, which wasn't
so good. They were good people, according to their lights, but
their lights were terribly strict ones, and they believed that the
harder you were on a youngster, the better and brighter he got.
Well, that may work with some children, but it didn't with
Johnny Pye.

He was sharp enough and willing enough— as sharp and will-
ing as most boys in Martinsville. But, somehow or other, he never
seemed to be able to do the right things or say the right words—
at least when he was home. Treat a boy like a fool and he'll act
like a fool, I say, but there's some folks need convincing. The
miller and his wife thought the way to smarten Johnny was

90

Johnny Pye and the Fool-Killer

o treat him like a fool, and finally they got so he pretty much
>elieved it himself.

And that was hard on him, for he had a boy's imagination,
md maybe a little more than most. He could stand the beatings
ind he did. But what he couldn't stand was the way things went
it the mill. I don't suppose the miller intended to do it. But, as
ong as Johnny Pye could remember, whenever he heard of the
leath of somebody he didn't like, he'd say, "Well, the Fool-
Killer's come for so-and-so," and sort of smack his lips. It was,
is you might say, a family joke, but the miller was a big man
>vith a big red face, and it made a strong impression on Johnny
?ye. Till, finally, he got a picture of the Fool-Killer, himself. He
kvas a big man, too, in a checked shirt and corduroy trousers,
md he went walking the ways of the world, with a hickory club
:hat had a lump of lead in the end of it. I don't know how Johnny
Pye got that picture so clear, but, to him, it was just as plain
is the face of any human being in Martinsville. And, now and
:hen, just to test it, he'd ask a grown-up person, kind of timidly,
f that was the way the Fool-Killer looked. And, of course, they'd
generally laugh and tell him it was. Then Johnny would wake
jp at night, in his room over the mill, and listen for the Fool-
Killer's step on the road and wonder when he was coming. But
[ie was brave enough not to tell anybody that.

Finally, though, things got a little more than he could bear.
He'd done some boy's trick or other— let the stones grind a little
fine, maybe, when the miller wanted the meal ground coarse-
just carelessness, you know. But he'd gotten two whippings for
it, one from the miller and one from his wife, and, at the end of
it, the miller had said, "Well, Johnny Pye, the Fool-Killer ought
to be along for you most any day now. For I never did see a boy
that was such a fool." Johnny looked to the miller's wife to see
if she believed it, too, but she just shook her head and looked
serious. So he went to bed that night, but he coulcWt sleep, for
every time a bough rustled or the mill wheel creaked, it seemed
to him it must be the Fool-Killer. And, early next morning, be-
fore anybody was up, he packed such duds as he had in a ban-
danna handkerchief and ran away.

He didn't really expect to get away from the Fool-Killer very
long—as far as he knew, the Fool-Killer got you wherever you

9'

Stephen Vincent Benet

went. But he thought he'd give him a run for his money, at least.
And when he got on the road, it was a bright spring morning,
and the first peace and quiet he'd had in some time. So his spirits
rose, and he chunked a stone at a bullfrog as he went along, just
to show he was Johnny Pye and still doing business.

He hadn't gone more than three or four miles out of Mar-
tinsville, when he heard a buggy coming up the road behind him.
He knew the Fool-Killer didn't need a buggy to catch you, so he
wasn't afraid of it, but he stepped to the side of the road to let
it pass. But it stopped, instead, and a black-whiskered man with
a stovepipe hat looked out of it.

"Hello, bub," he said. "Is this the road for East Liberty?"

"My name's John Pye and I'm eleven years old," said Johnny,
polite but firm, "and you take the next left fork for East Lib-
erty. They say it's a pretty town— I've never been there myself."
And he sighed a little, because he thought he'd like to see the
world before the Fool-Killer caught up with him.

"H'm," said the man. "Stranger here, too, eh? And what brings
a smart boy like you on the road so early in the morning?"

"Oh," said Johnny Pye, quite honestly, "I'm running away
from the Fool-Killer. For the miller says I'm a fool and his wife
•says I'm a fool and almost everybody in Martinsville says I'm a
fool except little Susie Marsh. And the miller says the Fool-
Killer's after me— so I thought I'd run away before he came."

The black-whiskered man sat in his buggy and wheezed for a
while. When he got his breath back, "Well, jump in, bub," he
said. "The miller may say you're a fool, but I think you're a
right smart boy to be running away from the Fool-Killer all by
yourself. And I don't hold with small-town prejudices and I
need a right smart boy, so I'll give you a lift on the road."

"But, will I be safe from the Fool-Killer, if I'm with you?"
said Johnny. "For, otherwise, it don't signify."

"Safe?" said the black-whiskered man, and wheezed again.
"Oh, you'll be safe as houses. You see, I'm a herb doctor— and
some folks think, a little in the Fool-Killer's line of business, my-
self. And I'll teach you a trade worth two of milling. So jump in,
bub."

"Sounds \all right the way you say it," said Johnny, "but my
name's John Pye," and he jumped into the buggy. And they went
rattling along toward East Liberty with the herb doctor talking

9*

Johnny Pye and the Fool-Killer

and cutting jokes till Johnny thought he'd never met a pleasanter
man. About half a mile from East Liberty, the doctor stopped at
a spring.

44 What are we stopping here for?" said Johnny Pye.

"Wait and see," said the doctor, and gave him a wink. Then
he got a haircloth trunk full of empty bottles out of the back of
the buggy and made Johnny fill them with spring water arid
label them. Then he added a pinch of pink powder to each bot-
tle and shook them up and corked them and stowed them away.

"What's that?" said Johnny, very interested.

"That's Old Doctor Waldo's Unparalleled Universal Rem-
edy," said the doctor, reading from the label.

"Made from the purest snake oil and secret Indian herb, if
cures rheumatism, blind staggers, headache, malaria, five kinds of
fits, and spots in front of the eyes. It will also remove oil or
grease stains, clean knives and silver, polish brass, and is strongly
recommended as a general tonic and blood purifier. Small size,
one dollar—family bottle, two dollars and a half."

"But I don't see any snake oil in it," said Johnny, puzzled, "or
any secret Indian herbs."

"That's because you're not a fool," said the doctor, with an-
other wink. "The Fool-Killer wouldn't, either. But most folks
will."

And, that very same night, Johnny saw. For the doctor made
his pitch in East Liberty and he did it handsome. He took a
couple of flaring oil torches and stuck them on the sides of the
buggy; he put on a diamond stickpin and did card tricks and
told funny stories till he had the crowd goggle-eyed. As for
Johnny, he let him play on the tambourine. Then he started talk-
ing about Doctor Waldo's Universal Remedy, and, with Johnny
to help him, the bottles went like hot cakes. Johnny helped the
doctor count the money afterward, and it was a pile.

"Well," said Johnny, "I never saw money made easier. You've
got a fine trade, Doctor."

"It's cleverness does it," said the doctor, and slapped him on
the back.

"Now a fool's content to stay in one place and do one thing,
but the Fool-Killer never caught up with a good pitchman yet.'

"Well, it's certainly lucky I met up with you," said Johnny,
"and, if it's cleverness does it, I'll learn the trade or bust."

93

Stephen Vincent Benet

So he stayed with the doctor quite a while— in fact, till he could
make up the remedy and do the card tricks almost as good as
the doctor. And the doctor liked Johnny, for Johnny was a bid-
dable boy. But one night they came into a town where things
didn't go as they usually did. The crowd gathered as usual, and
the doctor did his tricks. But, all the time, Johnny could see a
sharp-faced little fellow going through the crowd and whispering
to one man and another. Till, at last, right in the middle of the
doctor's spiel, the sharp-faced fellow gave a shout of "That's
him all right! I'd know them whiskers anywhere!" and, with
that, the crowd growled once and began to tear slats out of the
nearest fence. Well, the next thing Johnny knew, he and the
doctor were being ridden out of town on a rail, with the doc-
tor's long coattails flying at every jounce.

They didn't hurt Johnny particular— him only being a boy. But
they warned 'em both never to show their faces in that town
again, and then they heaved the doctor into a thistle patch and
went their ways.

"Owoo!" said the doctor, "ouch!" as Johnny was helping him
out of the thistle patch. "Go easy with those thistles! And why
didn't you give me the office, you blame little fool?"

"Office?" said Johnny. "What office?"

"When that sharp-nosed man started snooping around," said
the doctor. "I thought that infernal main street looked familiar—
I was through there two years ago, selling solid gold watches for
a dollar apiece."

"But the works to a solid gold watch would be worth more
than that," said Johnny.

"There weren't any works," said the doctor, with a groan,
"but there was a nice lively beetle inside each case and it made
the prettiest tick you ever heard."

"Well, that certainly was a clever idea," said Johnny. "I'd
never have thought of that."

"Clever?" said the doctor. "Ouch— it was ruination! But who'd
have thought the fools would bear a grudge for two years? And
now we've lost the horse and buggy, too— not to speak of the
bottles and the money. Well, there's lots more tricks to be played
and we'll start again."

But, though he liked the doctor, Johnny began to feel dubious.

94

Johnny Pye and the Fool-Killer

For it occurred to him that, if all the doctor's cleverness got
him was being ridden out of town on a rail, he couldn't be so
far away from the Fool-Killer as he thought. And, sure enough,
as he was going to sleep that night, he seemed to hear the Fool-
Killer's footsteps coming after him— step, step, step. He pulled his
jacket up over his ears, but he couldn't shut it out. So, when the
doctor had got in the way of starting business over again, he and
Johnny parted company. The doctor didn't bear any grudge;
he shook hands with Johnny and told him to remember that clev-
erness was power. And Johnny went on with his running away.

He got to a town, and there was a store with a sign in the win-
dow, BOY WANTED, so he went in. There, sure enough, was the
merchant, sitting at his desk, and a fine, important man he looked,
in his black broadcloth suit.

Johnny tried to tell him about the Fool-Killer, but the mer-
chant wasn't interested in that. He just looked Johnny over and
saw that he looked biddable and strong for his age. "But, re-
member, no fooling around, boy!" said the merchant sternly,
after he'd hired him.

"No fooling around?" said Johnny, with the light of hope in
his eyes.

"No," said the merchant, meaningly. "We've no room for fools
in this business, I can tell you! You work hard, and you'll rise.
But, if you've got any foolish notions, just knock them on the
head and forget them."

Well, Johnny was glad enough to promise that, and he stayed
with the merchant a year and a half. He swept out the store, and
he put the shutters up and took them down; he ran errands and
wrapped up packages and learned to keep busy twelve hours a
day. And, being a biddable boy and an honest one, he rose, just
like the merchant had said. The merchant raised his wages and
let him begin to wait on customers and learn accounts. And
then, one night, Johnny woke up in the middle of the night.
And it seemed to him he heard, far away but getting nearer,
the steps of the Fool-Killer after him— tramping, tramping.

He went to the merchant next day and said, "Sir, I'm sorry
to tell you this, but I'll have to be moving on."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that, Johnny," said the merchant,
"for you've been a good boy. And, if it's a question of salary—"

95

Stephen Vincent Benet

"It isn't that," said Johnny, "but tell me one thing, sir, if you
don't mind my asking. Supposing I did stay with you— where
would I end?"

The merchant smiled. "That's a hard question to answer," he
said, "and I'm not much given to compliments. But I started,
myself, as a boy, sweeping but the store. And you're a bright
youngster with lots of go-ahead. I don't see why, if you stuck
to it, you shouldn't make the same kind of success that I have."

"And what's that?" said Johnny.

The merchant began to look irritated, but he kept his smile.

"Well," he said, "I'm not a boastful man, but I'll tell you this.
Ten years ago I was the richest man in town. Five years ago, I
was the richest man in the county. And five years from now-
well, I aim to be the richest man in the state."

His eyes kind of glittered as he said it, but Johnny was looking
at his face. It was sallow-skinned and pouchy, with the jaw as
hard as a rock. And it came upon Johnny that moment that,
though he'd known the merchant a year and a half, he'd never
really seen him enjoy himself except when he was driving a bar-
gain.

"Sorry, sir," he said, "but, if it's like that, I'll certainly have to
go. Because, you see, I'm running away from the Fool-Killer, and
if I stayed here and got to be like you, he'd certainly catch up
with me in no—"

"Why, you impertinent young cub!" roared the merchant,
with his face gone red all of a sudden. "Get your money from
the cashier! " and Johnny was on the road again before you could
say "Jack Robinson." But, this time, he was used to it, and
walked off whistling.

Well, after that, he hired out to quite a few different people,
but I won't go into all of his adventures. He worked for an
inventor for a while, and they split up because Johnny happened
to ask him what would be the good of his patent, self-winding,
perpetual-motion machine, once he did get it invented. And,
while the inventor talked big about improving the human race
and the beauties of science, it was plain he didn't know. So that
night, Johnny heard the steps of the Fool-Killer, far off but com-
ing closer, and, next morning, he went away. Then he stayed
with a minister for a while, and he certainly hated to leave him,
for the minister was a good man. But they got talking one evening

Johnny Pye and the Fool-Killer

and, as it chanced, Johnny asked him what happened to people
who didn't believe in his particular religion. Well, the minister
was broad-minded, but there's only one answer to that. He ad-
mitted they might be good folks— he even admitted they mightn't
exactly go to hell— but he couldn't let them into heaven, no, not
the best and the wisest of them, for there were the specifications
laid down by creed and church, and, if you didn't fulfill them,
you didn't.

So Johnny had to leave him, and, after that, he went with an
old drunken fiddler for a while. He wasn't a good man, I guess,
but he could play till the tears ran down your cheeks. And,
when he was playing his best, it seemed to Johnny that the
Fool-Killer was very far away. For, in spite of his faults and
his weaknesses, while he played, there was might in the man.
But he died drunk in a ditch, one night, with Johnny to hold
his head, and, while he left Johnny his fiddle, it didn't do Johnny
much good. For, while Johnny could play a tune, he couldn't
play like the fiddler— it wasn't in his fingers.

Then it chanced that Johnny took up with a company of sol-
diers. He was still too young to enlist, but they made a kind of
pet of him, and everything went swimmingly for a while. For
the captain was the bravest man Johnny had ever seen, and he
had an answer for everything, out of regulations and the Arti-
cles of War. But then they went West to fight Indians and the
same old trouble cropped up again. For one night the captain
said to him, "Johnny, we're going to fight the enemy tomorrow,
but you'll stay in camp."

"Oh, I don't want to do that," said Johnny; "I want to be in
on the fighting."

"It's an order," said the captain, grimly. Then he gave Johnny
certain instructions and a letter to take to his wife.

"For the colonel's a copper-plated fool," he said, "and we're
walking straight into an ambush."

"Why don't you tell him that?" said Johnny.

"I have," said the captain, "but he's the colonel."

"Colonel or no colonel," said Johnny, "if he's a fool, some-
body ought to stop him."

"You can't do that, in an army," said the captain. "Orders are
orders." But it turned out the captain was wrong about it, for,
next day, before they could get moving, the Indians attacked

97

Stephen Vincent Eenet

and got badly licked. When it was all over, "Well, it was a good
fight," said the captain, professionally. "All the same, if they'd
waited and laid in ambush, they'd have had our hair. But, as it
was, they didn't stand a chance."

"But why didn't they lay in ambush?" said Johnny.

"Well," said the captain, "I guess they had their orders too.
And now, how would you like to be a soldier?"

"Well, it's a nice outdoors life, but I'd like to think it over,"
said Johnny. For he knew the captain was brave and he knew the
Indians had been brave— you couldn't find two braver sets of
people. But, all the same, when he thought the whole thing over,
he seemed to hear steps in the sky. So he soldiered to the end of
the campaign and then he left the army, though the captain told
him he was making a mistake.

By now, of course, he wasn't a boy any longer; he was getting
to be a young man with a young man's thoughts and feelings.
And, half the time, nowadays, he d forget about the Fool-Killer
except as a dream he'd had when he was a boy. He could even
laugh at it now and then, and think what a fool he'd been to
believe there was such a man.

But, all the same, the desire in him wasn't satisfied, and some-
thing kept driving him on. He'd have called it ambitiousness,
now, but it came to the same thing. And with every new trade
he tried, sooner or later would come the dream— the dream of
the big man in the checked shirt and corduroy pants, walking
the ways of the world with his hickory stick in one hand. It made
him angry to have that dream, now, but it had a singular power
over him. Till, finally, when he was turned twenty or so, he got
scared.

"Fool-Killer or no Fool-Killer," he said to himself. "I've got
to ravel this matter out. For there must be some one thing a man
could tie to, and be sure he wasn't a fool. I've tried cleverness
and money and half a dozen other things, and they don't seem to
be the answer. So now I'll try book learning and see what comes
of that."

So he read all the books he could find, and whenever he'd seem
to hear the steps of the Fool-Killer coming for the authors— and
that was frequent—he'd try and shut his ears. But some books said
one thing was best and some another, and he couldn't rightly
decide.

Johnny Pye and the Fool-Killer

"Well," he said to himself, when he'd read and read till his
head felt as stuffed with book learning as a sausage with meat,
"it's interesting, but it isn't exactly contemporaneous. So I think
I'll go down to Washington and ask the wise men there. For it
must take a lot of wisdom to run a country like the United
States, and if there's people who can answer my questions, it's
there they ought to be found."

So he packed his bag and off to Washington he went. He was
modest for a youngster, and he didn't intend to try and see the
President right away. He thought probably a congressman was
about his size. So he saw a congressman, and the congressman
told him the thing to be was an upstanding young American and
vote the Republican ticket— which sounded all right to Johnny
Pye, but not exactly what he was after.

Then he went to a senator, and the senator told him to be an
upstanding young American and vote the Democratic ticket—
which sounded all right, too, but not what he was after, either.
And, somehow, though both men had been impressive and
affable, right in the middle of their speeches he'd seemed to hear
steps— you know.

But a man has to eat, whatever else he does, and Johnny found
he'd bejter buckle down and get himself a job. It happened to be
with the first congressman he struck, for that one came from
Martinsville, which is why Johnny went to him in the first place.
And, in a little while, he forgot his search entirely and the Fool-
Killer, too, for the congressman's niece came East to visit him,
and she was the Susie Marsh that Johnny had sat next in school.
She'd been pretty then, but she was prettier now, and as soon
as Johnny Pye saw her, his heart gave a jurtip and a thump.

"And don't think we don't remember you in Martinsville,
Johnny Pye," she said, when her uncle had explained who his
new clerk was. "Why, the whole town'll be excited when I write
home. We've heard all about your killing Indians and inventing
perpetual motion and traveling around the country with a famous
doctor and making a fortune in dry goods and— oh, it's a won-
derful story!"

"Well," said Johnny, and coughed, "some of that's just a little
bit exaggerated. But it's nice of you to be interested. So they
don't think I'm a fool any more, in Martinsville?"

99

Stephen Vincent Benet

"I never thought you were a fool," said Susie with a little
smile, and Johnny felt his heart give another bump.

"And I always knew you were pretty, but never how pretty
till now," said Johnny, and coughed again. "But, speaking of old
times, how's the miller and his wife? For I did leave them right
sudden, and while there were faults on both sides, I must have
been a trial to them too."

"They've gone the way of all flesh," said Susie Marsh, "and
there's a new miller now. But he isn't very well-liked, to tell the
truth, and he's letting the mill run down."

"That's a pity," said Johnny, "for it was a likely mill." Then
he began to ask her more questions and she began to remember
things too. Well, you know how the time can go when two
youngsters get talking like that.

Johnny Pye never worked so hard in his life as he did that win-
ter. And it wasn't the Fool-Killer he thought about— it was Susie
Marsh. First he thought she loved him and then he was sure she
didn't, and then he was betwixt and between, and all perplexed
and confused. But, finally, it turned out all right and he had
her promise, and Johnny Pye knew he was the happiest man
in the world. And that night, he waked up in the night and
heard the Fool-Killer coming after him—step, step, step;

He didn't sleep much after that, and he came down to break-
fast hollow-eyed. But his uncle-to-be didn't notice that— he was
rubbing his hands and smiling.

"Put on your best necktie, Johnny!" he said, very cheerful,
"for I've got an appointment with the President today, and, just
to show I approve of my niece's fiance, I'm taking you along."

"The President!" said Johnny, all dumbfounded.

"Yes," said Congressman Marsh, "you see, there's a little bill-
well, we needn't go into that. But slick down your back hair,
Johnny—we'll make Martinsville proud of us this day!"

Then a weight seemed to go from Johnny's shoulders and a
load from his heart. He wrung Mr. Marsh's hand.

"Thank you, Uncle Eben!" he said. "I can't thank you enough."
For, at last, he knew he was going to look upon a man that was
bound to be safe from the Fool-Killer— and it seemed to him if
he could just once do that, all his troubles and searchings would
be ended.

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Johnny Pye and the Fool-Killer

Well, it doesn't signify which President it was— you can take it
from me that he was President and a fine-looking man. He'd just
been elected, too, so he was lively as a trout, and the saddle galls
he'd get from Congress hadn't even begun to show. Anyhow,
there he was, and Johnny feasted his eyes on him. For if there
was anybody in the country the Fool-Killer couldn't bother,
it must be a man like this.

The President and the congressman talked politics for a while,
and then it was Johnny's turn.

"Well, young man," said the President, affably, "and what can
I do for you— for you look to me like a fine, upstanding young
American."

The congressman cut in quick before Johnny could open his
mouth.

"Just a word of advice, Mr. President," he said. "Just a word
in season. For my young friend's led an adventurous life, but
now he's going to marry my niece and settle down. And what he
needs most of all is a word of ripe wisdom from you."

"Well," said the President, looking at Johnny rather keenly,
"if that's all he needs, a short horse is soon curried. I wish most
of my callers wanted as little."

But, all the same, he drew Johnny out, as such men can, and
before Johnny knew it, he was telling his life story.

"Well," said the President, at the end, "you certainly have been
a rolling stone, young man. But there's nothing wrong in that.
And, for one of your varied experience there's one obvious
career. Politics!" he said, and slapped his fist in his hand.

"Well," said Johnny, scratching his head, "of course, since I've
been in Washington, I've thought of that. But I don't know that
I'm rightly fitted."

"You can write a speech," said Congressman Marsh, quite
thoughtful, "for you've helped me with mine. You're a likeable
fellow too. And you were born poor and worked up— and you've
even got a war record— why, hell! Excuse me, Mr. President!—
he's worth five hundred votes just as he stands!"

"I— I'm more than honored by you two gentlemen," said
Johnny, abashed and flattered, "but supposing I did go into
politics— where would I end up?"

The President looked sort of modest.

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Stephen Vincent Benet

"The Presidency of the United States," said he, "is within the
legitimate ambition of every American citizen. Provided he can
get elected, of course."

"Oh," said Johnny, feeling dazzled, "I never thought of that.
Well, that's a great thing. But it must be a great responsibility
too."

"It is," said the President, looking just like his pictures on the
campaign buttons.

"Why, it must be an awful responsibility!" said Johnny. "I
can't hardly see how a mortal man can bear it. Tell me, Mr.
President," he said, "may I ask you a question?"

"Certainly," said the President, looking prouder and more re-
sponsible and more and more like his picture on the campaign
buttons every minute.

"Well," said Johnny, "it sounds like a fool question, but it's
this: This is a great big country of ours, Mr. President, and it's
got the most amazing lot of different people in it. How can any
President satisfy all those people at one time? Can you yourself,
Mr. President?"

The President looked a bit taken aback for a minute. But then
he gave Johnny Pye a statesman's glance.

"With the help of God," he said, solemnly, "and in accordance
with the principles of our great party, I intend . . ."

But Johnny didn't even hear the end of the sentence. For,
even as the President was speaking, he heard a step outside in the
corridor and he knew, somehow, it wasn't the step of a secretary
or a guard. He was glad the President had said "with the help of
God" for that sort of softened the step. And when the President
finished, Johnny bowed.

"Thank you, Mr. President," he said; "that's what I wanted
to know. And now I'll go back to Martinsville, I guess."

"Go back to Martinsville?" said the President, surprised.

"Yes, sir," said Johnny. "For I don't think I'm cut out for
politics."

"And is that all you have to say to the President of the United
States?" said his uncle-to-be, in a fume.

But the President had been thinking, meanwhile, and he was
a bigger man than the congressman.

"Wait a minute, Congressman," he said. "This young man's
honest, at least, and I like his looks. Moreover, of all the people

TOl

Johnny Pye and the Fool-Killer

who've come to see me in the last six months, he's the only one
who hasn't wanted something— except the White House cat, and
I guess she wanted something, too, because she meowed. You
don't want to be President, young man— and, confidentially, I
don't blame you. But how would you like to be postmaster at
Martinsville?"

"Postmaster at Martinsville?" said Johnny. "But—"

"Oh, it's only a tenth-class post office," said the President, "but,
for once in my life, I'll do something because I want to, and let
Congress yell its head off. Come— is it yes or no?"

Johnny thought of all the places he'd been and all the trades
he'd worked at. He thought, queerly enough, of the old drunk
fiddler dead in the ditch, but he knew he couldn't be that. Mostly,
though, he thought of Martinsville and Susie Marsh. And, though
he'd just heard the Fool-Killer's step, he defied the Fool-Killer.

"Why, it's yes, of course, Mr. President," he said, "for then
I can marry Susie."

"That's as good a reason as you'll find," said the President.
"And now, I'll just write a note."

Well, he was as good as his word, and Johnny and his Susie
were married and went back to live in Martinsville. And, as
soon as Johnny learned the ways of postmastering, he found it as
good a trade as most. There wasn't much mail in Martinsville, but,
in between whiles, he ran the mill, and that was a good trade too.
And all the time, he knew, at the back of his mind, that he hadn't
quite settled accounts with the Fool-Killer. But he didn't much
care about that, for he and Susie were happy. And after a while
they had a child, and that was the most remarkable experience
that had ever happened to any young couple, though the doctor
said it was a perfectly normal baby.

One evening, when. his son was about a year old, Johnny
Pye took the river road, going home. It was a mite longer than
the hill road, but it was the cool of the evening, and there's times
when a man likes to walk by himself, fond as he may be of his
wife and family.

He was thinking of the way things had turned out for him,
and they seemed to him pretty astonishing and singular, as they
do to most folks, when you think them over. In fact, he was
thinking so hard that, before he knew it, he'd almost stumbled
over an old scissors grinder who'd set up his grindstone and tools

103

Stephen Vincent Benet

by the side of the road. The scissors grinder had his cart with him,
but he'd turned the horse out to graze— and a lank, old, white
horse it was, with every rib showing. And he was very busy,
putting an edge on a scythe.

"Oh, sorry," said Johnny Pye. "I didn't know anybody was
camping here. But you might come around to my house tomor-
row—my wife's got some knives that need sharpening."

Then he stopped, for the old man gave him a long, keen look.

"Why, it's you, Johnny Pye," said the old man. "And how do
you do, Johnny Pye! You've been a long time coming— in fact,
now and then, I thought I'd have to fetch you. But you're here
at last."

Johnny Pye was a grown man now, but he began to tremble.

"But it isn't you!" he said, wildly. "I mean you're not him!
Why, I've known how he looks all my life! He's a big man, with
a checked shirt, and he carries a hickory stick with a lump of
lead in one end."

"Oh, no," said the scissors grinder, quite quiet. "You may have
thought of me that way, but that's not the way I am." And
Johnny Pye heard the scythe go whet-whet-whet on the stone.
The old man ran some water on it and looked at the edge. Then
he shook his head as if the edge didn't quite satisfy him. "Well,
Johnny, are you ready?" he said, after a while.

"Ready?" said Johnny, in a hoarse voice. "Of course I'm not
ready."

"That's what they all say," said the old man, nodding his head,
and the scythe went whet- whet on the stone.

Johnny wiped his brow and started to argue it out.

"You see, if you'd found me earlier," he said, "or later. I don't
want to be unreasonable, but I've got a wife and a child."

"Most has wives and many has children," said the old man,
grimly, and the scythe went whet-whet on the stone as he pushed
the treadle. And a shower of sparks flew, very clear and bright,
for the night had begun to fall.

"Oh, stop that damn racket and let a man think for a minute!"
said Johnny, desperate. "I can't go, I tell you. I won't. It isn't
time. It's-"

The old man stopped the grindstone and pointed with the
scythe at Johnny Pye.

"Tell me one good reason," he said. "There's men would be

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Johnny Pye and the Fool-Killer

missed in the world, but are you one of them? A clever man
might be missed, but are you a clever man?"

"No," said Johnny, thinking of the herb doctor. "I had a
chance to be clever, but I gave it up."

"One," said the old man, ticking off on his fingers. "Well, a
rich man might be missed— by some. But you aren't rich, I take
it."

"No," said Johnny, thinking of the merchant, "nor wanted
to be."

"Two," said the old man. "Cleverness— riches— they're done.
But there's still martial bravery and being a hero. There might
be an argument to make, if you were one of those."

Johnny Pye shuddered a little, remembering the way that
battlefield had looked, out West, when the Indians were dead and
the fight over.

"No," he said, "I've fought, but I'm not a hero."

"Well, then, there's religion," said the old- man, sort of patient,
"and science, and— but what's the use? We know what you did
with those. I might feel a trifle of compunction if I had to deal
with a President of the United States. But—"

"Oh, you know well enough I ain't President," said Johnny,
with a groan. "Can't you get it oVer with and be done?"

"You're not putting up a very good case," said the old man,
shaking his head. "I'm surprised at you, Johnny. Here you spend
your youth running away from being a fool. And yet, what's
the first thing you do, when you're man grown? Why, you
marry a girl, settle down in your home town, and start raising
children when you don't know how they'll turn out. You might
have known I'd catch up with you, then— you just put yourself
in my way."

"Fool I may be," said Johnny Pye in his agony, "and if you
take it like that, I guess we're all fools. But Susie's my wife, and
my child's my child. And, as for work in the world— well, some-
body has to be postmaster, or folks wouldn't get the mail."

"Would it matter much if they didn't?" said the old man,
pointing his scythe.

"Well, no, I don't suppose it would, considering what's on
the post cards," said Johnny Pye. "But while it's my business to
sort it, I'll sort it as well as I can."

105

Stephen Vincent Benet

The old man whetted his scythe so hard that a long shower of
sparks flew out on the grass.

"Well," he said, "I've got my job, too, and I do it likewise,
But I'll tell you what I'll do. You're coming my way, no doubt
of it, but, looking you over, you don't look quite ripe yet. So
I'll let you off for a while. For that matter," said he, "if you'll
answer one question of mine— how a man can be a human being
and not be a fool—I'll let you off permanent. It'll be the first
time in history," he said, "but you've got to do something on
your own hook, once in a while. And now you can walk along,
Johnny Pye."

With that he grounded the scythe till the sparks flew out like
the tail of a comet and Johnny Pye walked along. The air of the
meadow had never seemed so sweet to him before.

All the same, even with his relief, he didn't quite forget, and
sometimes Susie had to tell the children not to disturb father
because he was thinking. But time went ahead, as it does, and
pretty soon Johnny Pye found he was forty. He'd never ex-
pected to be forty, when he was young, and it kind of surprised
him. But there it was, though he couldn't say he felt much dif-
ferent, except now and then when he stooped over. And he was
a solid citizen of the town, well-liked and well-respected, with a
growing family and a stake in the community, and when he
thought those things over, they kind of surprised him too. But,
pretty soon, it was as if things had always been that way.

It was after his eldest son had been drowned out fishing that
Johnny Pye met the scissors grinder again. But this time he was
bitter and distracted, and, if he could have got to the old man,
he'd have done him a mortal harm. But, somehow or other, when
he tried to come to grips with him, it was like reaching for air
and mist. He could see the sparks fly from the ground scythe,
but he couldn't even touch the wheel.

"You coward!" said Johnny Pye. "Stand up and fight like a
man!" But the old man just nodded his head and the wheel kept
grinding and grinding.

"Why couldn't you have taken me?" said Johnny Pye, as if
those words had never been said before. "What's the sense in all
this? Why can't you take me now?"

Then he tried to wrench the scythe from the old man's hands,

1 06

Johnny Pye and the Fool-Killer

but he couldn't touch it. And then he fell down and lay on th*
grass for a while.

"Time passes," said the old man, nodding his head. "Tim*
passes."

"It will never cure the grief I have for my son," said Johnny Pye.

"It will not," said the old man, nodding his head. "But time
passes. Would you leave your wife a widow and your other
children fatherless for the sake of your grief?"

"No, God help me!" said Johnny Pye. "That wouldn't b«
right for a man."

"Then go home to your house, Johnny Pye," said the old man.
And Johnny Pye went, but there were lines in his face that
hadn't been there before.

And time passed, like the flow of the river, and Johnny Pye's
children married and had houses and children of their own. And
Susie's hair grew white, and her back grew bent, and when
Johnny Pye and his children followed her to her grave, folks said
she'd died in the fullness of years, but that was hard for Johnny
Pye to believe. Only folks didn't talk as plain as they used to,
and the sun didn't heat as much, and sometimes, before dinner,
he'd go to sleep in his chair.

And once, after Susie had died, the President of those days
came through Martinsville and Johnny Pye shook hands with
him and there was a piece in the paper about his shaking hands
with two Presidents, fifty years apart. Johnny Pye cut out the
clipping and kept it in his pocketbook. He liked this President all
right, but, as he told people, he wasn't a patch on the other one
fifty years ago. Well, you couldn't expect it— you didn't have
Presidents these days, not to call them Presidents. All the same,
he took a lot of satisfaction in the clipping.

He didn't get down to the river road much any more— it wasn't
too long a walk, of course, but he just didn't often feel like it.
But, one day, he slipped away from the granddaughter that was
taking care of him, and went. It was kind of a steep road, really
—he didn't remember its being so steep.

"Well," said the scissors grinder, "and good afternoon to you,
Johnny Pye."

"You'll have to talk a little louder," said Johnny Pye. "My
hearing's perfect, but folks don't speak as plain as they used to.
Stranger in town?"

107

Stephen Vincent Benet

"Oh, so that's the way it is," said the scissors grinder.

"Yes, that's the way it is," said Johnny Pye. He knew he ought
to be afraid of this fellow, now he'd put on his spectacles and got
a good look at him, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember
why.

"I know just who you are," he said, a little fretfully. "Never
forgot a face in my life, and your name's right on the tip of my
tongue—"

"Oh, don't bother about names," said the scissors grinder.
"We're old acquaintances. And I asked you a question, years ago
—do you remember that?"

"Yes," said Johnny Pye, "I remember." Then he began to
laugh—a high, old man's laugh. "And of all the fool questions I
ever was asked," he said, "that certainly took the cake."

"Oh?" said the scissors grinder.

"Uh-huh," said Johnny Pye. "For you asked me how a man
could be a human being and yet not be a fool. And the answer
is—when tie's dead and gone and buried. Any fool would know
that."

"That so?" said the scissors grinder.

"Of course," said Johnny Pye. "I ought to know. I'll be ninety-
two next November, and I've shook hands with two Presidents.
The first President I shook—"

"I'll be interested to hear about that," said the scissors grinder,
"but we've got a little business, first. For, if all human beings are
fools, how does the world get ahead?"

"Oh, there's lots of other things," said Johnny Pye, kind of
impatient. "There's the brave and the wise and the clever— and
they're apt to roll it ahead as much as an inch. But it's all mixed
in together. For, Lord, it's only some fool kind of creature that
would have crawled out of the sea to dry land in the first place
—or got dropped from the Garden of Eden, if you like it better
that way. You can't depend on the kind of folks people think
they are— you've got to go by what they do. And I wouldn't
give much for a man that some folks hadn't thought was a fool,
in his time."

"Well," said the scissors grinder, "you've answered my ques-
tion—at least as well as you could, which is all you can expect of
a man. So I'll keep my part of the bargain."

108

Johnny Pye and the Fool-Killer

"And what was that?" said Johnny. "For, while it's all straight
in my head, I don't quite recollect the details."

"Why," said the scissors grinder, rather testy, "I'm to let you
go, you old fool! You'll never see me again till the Last Judg-
ment. There'll be trouble in the office about it," said he, "but
you've got to do what you like, once in a while."

"Phew!" said Johnny Pye. "That needs thinking over!" And
he scratched his head.

"Why?" said the scissors grinder, a bit affronted. "It ain't
often I offer a man eternal life."

"Well," said Johnny Pye, "I take it very kind, but, you see, it's
this way." He thought for a moment. "No," he said, "you
wouldn't understand. You can't have touched seventy yet, by
your looks, and no young man would."

"Try me," said the scissors grinder.

"Well," said Johnny Pye, "it's this way," and he scratched his
head again. "I'm not saying— if you'd made the offer forty years
ago, or even twenty. But, well, now, let's just take one detail.
Let's say 'teeth.' "

"Well, of course," said the scissors grinder, "naturally— I mean
you could hardly expect me to do anything about that."

"I thought so," said Johnny Pye. "Well, you see, these are
good, bought teeth, but I'm sort of tired of hearing them click.
And spectacles, I suppose, the same?"

"I'm afraid so," said the scissors grinder. "I can't interfere with
time, you know— that's not my department. And, frankly, you
couldn't expect, at a hundred and eighty, let's say, to be quite
the man you was at ninety. But still, you'd be a wonder!"

"Maybe so," said Johnny Pye, "but, you see— well, the truth
is, I'm an old man now. You wouldn't think it to look at me,
but it's so. And my friends— wrell, they're gone— and Susie and the
boy— and somehow you don't get as close to the younger people,
except the children. And to keep on just going and going till
Judgment Day, with nobody around to talk to that had, real
horse sense— well, no, sir, it's a handsome offer but I just don't
feel up to accepting it. It may not be patriotic of me, and I feel
sorry for Martinsville. It'd do wonders for the climate and the
chamber of commerce to have a leading citizen live till Judgment
Day. But a man's got to do as he likes, at least once in his life."
He stopped and looked at the scissors grinder. "I'll admit, I'd kind

IOQ

Stephen Vincent Ken6t

of like to beat out Ike Leavis," he said. "To hear him talk, you'd
think nobody had ever pushed ninety before. But I suppose—"

"I'm afraid we can't issue a limited policy," said the scissors
grinder.

"Well," said Johnny Pye, "I just thought of it. And Ike's all
right." He waited a moment. "Tell me," he said, in a low voice.
"Well, you know what I mean. Afterwards. I mean, if you're
likely to see"— he coughed— "your friends again. I mean, if it's so
—like some folks believe." '

"I can't tell you that," said the scissors grinder. "I only go so
far."

"Well, there's no harm in asking," said Johnny Pye, rather
humbly. He peered into the darkness; a last shower of sparks
flew from the scythe, then the whir of the wheel stopped.

"H'm," said Johnny Pye, testing the edge. "That's a well-
ground scythe. But they used to grind 'em better in the old days."
He listened and looked, for a moment, anxiously. "Oh, Lordy!"
he said, "there's Helen coming to look for me. She'll take me back
to the house."

"Not this time," said the scissors grinder. "Yes, there isn't bad
steel in that scythe. Well, let's go, Johnny Pye."

SPANISH BAYONET

Spanish Bayonet

PRELUDE: THE BARBARY APE

THEY were dancing in the streets of Port Mahon.
The time was shortly after Easter in the year of our
Lord, 1769. Christ had died and risen again in the Cathedral, with
flowers and candleflame and the songs of Easter Eve, when stroll-
ers pass through the narrow, rocky streets, singing the Fromajar-
dis— the sorrows of Mary— and receive through opened lattice and
shutter, small sanctified gifts of sweetmeats and pastry from hands
blurred by the dusk. This year the sweetmeats nad been few and
poor, for the scanty crops of Minorca had failed for the third
successive season, and all Lent the Vicar-General had excused his
afflicted children from their duty of abstinence, so pinched were
the times. But now, with the resurrection of the earth and the
grave twilights of April, there was hope in the air, and the tiled
and terrace-roofed houses that clung together in a town against
the rock, like the nests of swallows upon a chimney of stone,
knew again the music of the guitar.

Below, in the famous harbor where all the fleets of Europe
might ride at anchor, lay the ships which had brought that hope.
Minorca had too many children to feed from a narrow and in-
durate breast—the ships would take some away, over the ocean,
to a new country, where the British flag flew from the top of a
palm-tree in the Floridas of America, and, after four years of
labor for the master of the expedition, a man might claim his own
fifty acres of fertile ground and take his siesta at noon in the
shadow of his own trees.

Sebastian Zafortezas, looking down at the harbor through the
clear darkness, made out the riding-lights of those ships, and pon-
dered the strange benevolencies of the English. Quick, loud-
voiced, red-faced men who swore without punctilio and prayed
without courtesy, who bathed themselves unnecessarily in frigid

TI3

Stephen Vincent Benet

waters as a preparation for future torments of incessant fire, they
nevertheless displayed an extraordinary unwillingness to let
newly-reconquered subjects die quietly of starvation. They were
all a little mad, of course, and the master of the ships in the harbor
no doubt as mad as any.

A doctor they called him, but Sebastian could hardly believe it.
He was not like Spanish doctors, seemly and mournful, as befits
one who immediately precedes the priest and the undertaker, but
spry and perpetually smiling with clean hands and a gentleman's
wig. Moreover the English governor had received him with much
honor, which even an English governor would hardly show to
one whose avouched occupation was not much better than that
of a burier-beetle. Ah well, it was all one, thought Sebastian-
doctor or prince, he had given the word of an Englishman as to
the rewards which might be gained by those who embarked with
him as colonists for the distant country—and the word of an
Englishman, no matter how mad, was good. Minorca had learned
that in her last fifty years of shuttlecocking between the Powers
—and the hearts of her people cherished few romantic yearnings
for reunion with Spain.

Spain was well enough, but they were the people of the islands.
They had given sailors to Carthage and slingers to Rome, their
rocks held deserted altars to gods forgotten before the Cross.
Their pilots had known the sea when Prince Henry the Navigator
was a royal doll in swaddling-clothes, and it was said of them on
the mainland that the poorest fisherman of the islands was prouder
than three grandees.

As Sebastian gazed at the harbor, he felt a wave of unexpected
sickness strike at his heart at the thought of never seeing it again
nor any of the streamless island of doves and eagles, but it soon
passed. At the age of fifteen he was admittedly a man and men
did not suffer from homesickness. Besides, there was nothing else
to do. His uncle could not keep him in Port Mahon any longer;
there were enough mouths in that house already. And the hut
near the Altar of the Gentiles, in the boulders of Fererias, where
he had been born and lived till a year ago, had been picked clean
before his mother died. He had her rosary of sea-snail shells and
his father's knife; that was all one could expect.

Moreover, his adventure would not be a lonely one. When the
ships passed out by St. Philip's Castle next week, on the track

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Spanish Bayonet

the beaten Almojarife had travelled toward Barbary with his
people, his books of magic, his Moorish gowns and his fifty swords,
more than a thousand Mahonese would be aboard, men, women
and children, pet lizards, pots and scapulars. Sebastian saw him-
self in the future for an instant, gazing out over the foreign land-
scape of his fifty acres with a burst ripe fig half-eaten in his hand
and a child making scrawls with a stick in the dust before his
doorstep. Then he turned away from his post of musing with a
smile on his mouth.

He had made his confession at Easter and been absolved— the
past was balanced, the future incomprehensible,— but tonight he
could dance with a free heart. He followed the clue of the music
along mazy alleyways, his body a little giddy at times from weeks
of undernourishment, but his mind at peace. At last he came out
where the wider street was crowded with the grave dancers and
the throb of the guitars echoed like silver blood in the dark veins
of heaven. He stood for a moment, observing the scene.

The street was lit by torches— occasionally one of them would
sputter and send up a shower of tiny golden bees in the still air.
Beneath them the dissolving patterns of the dance formed and
broke and reformed again like a shower of the colored petals of
flowers stirred by light wind. The women danced discreetly, their
eyes cast on the ground; the men were more extravagant in their
gestures; but in the faces of both, the eyes were large with star-
vation and solemn with joy. The rebozillas pinned about the heads
of the women did not hide the faint hollows in their cheeks-
hunger had given them a new and extenuate beauty— their feet
seemed lighter to them and a little mad. The red worsted girdles
of the men were drawn tighter about their bodies, their cheeks
showed the play of hunger too, but their broad flat shoes of
white leather slapped gallantly on the stones; and in a corner of
shadows the musicians plucked at their ribboned instruments yet
more swiftly and the dance went on and on, without beginning
or end.

Occasionally, without apparent reason, the musicians would give
in unison a short sonorous cry, and the bystanders would call
out at once "Long live the dancers!" in reticent approval, to be
echoed by a low, soft murmur from the dancers of "Long live
the lookers-on!" Such was the courtesy of Minorca, and to
Sebastian, as he watched, the murmurous call and response turned

Stephen Vincent Benet

to the perpetual cooing of the ringdoves in the sea-caves where
his father had been drowned and the red of worsted girdle and
Phrygian cap was the blood of the sun sinking into the waters
of evening above the Altar of the Gentiles, and music touched
at the heart, and an island was hard to leave. But presently he
found himself dancing, too— aloofly and arrogantly as befits a man
of fifteen.

He hardly noticed his partner— the torches threw confusing
shadows, her eyes were averted, her mouth hidden behind her
black fan. Presently one of the bystanders called out to him
gayly in the permissible words, "Say a word to her! Say a word
to her!" He responded mechanically in the set and ancient com-
pliment, "What would you have me say to her but that she
has the face of a rose?" and there was a clapping of hands. But
her face, as the fan drooped aside for an instant in acknowledg-
ment, was not like that of a rose but a darker and more bar-
barous flower. He sought idly for the name of such a flower for
a moment, then the thought passed from his mind and the pattern
of the dance took its place. "Ha! Ha!" cried the musicians and
stamped their feet— "Spain! Spain!" twanged the strings of the
guitars.

It was some time later and Sebastian was wholly absorbed in
the flow of the dance, when the little ape on the roof of one of
the houses overlooking the street, decided that there might be
pickings down among men if he were bold enough to go and look
for them. He was very hungry but equally terrified and the more
recent events of his life had given him little confidence in human-
ity. Bought from a Barbary Jew by the master of a Spanish
merchantman and sold again in Mahon harbor to a drunken pri-
vate of the Royal Irish Foot, he had tasted the characteristics
of three different nations of mankind in the last few weeks and
found each as bitter and strange as the cold, stinging waters of
the sea. He was a young, uninstructed ape, smaller than most of
his tail-less species— and his disposition normally inclined toward
the cheerful. But his heart was gloomy now, and the fur of his
body miserable.

There were neither proper victuals nor people of his race in
this stony region and he could not forget the fight between his
latest master and another bellowing, red-furred giant which had
given him his liberty some hours ago. The sergeant had made

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suggestions anent the succulent qualities of roasted monkey which
the other had not treated with due respect— but a knowledge of
this was spared the cause of the combat who regarded all the
various, inexplicable noises emitted by the human race with the
same timid disdain. Their occupations, too, seemed both futile
and mysterious, he thought as he shivered on his rooftop, watch-
ing the dance. One never could expect anything of them but
curious pawings and tweakings and a series of imprisonments in
places that smelt indelicately of humanity. But his hunger drove
him, and presently he slipped down the wall of the house to
crouch a moment in the shadows at its foot, peering about with
quick, startled, melancholy eyes.

The dancers did not observe him but a boy half-asleep in a
doorway did, came awake abruptly and ran, shouting and waving
his arms. Quite distraught with terror at once, the monkey lost
his wits completely and darted blindly between the feet of the
dancers. Great jostling bodies trampled all about him and his
nostrils were full of the unpleasing odor of man. He ran this
way and that confusedly for an instant while everyone shouted
and pointed, and then suddenly leaped for refuge at something
tall and stationary which, if Fate were really a monkey, might
prove to be some new sort of tree. It was not a tree but a man,
and he knew it while he was yet in the air, but at least he was
off the dangerous ground. He clung to the man's shirt, half-dead
and hardly daring to breathe. But the man stayed perfectly still,
and, after a while, the monkey felt a linger rubbing his fur the
right way.

The incident had only halted the dance for a moment. It con-
tinued now; the boy, his brief excitement forgotten, fell asleep
in his doorway again; "Say a word to her! Say a word to her!"
called the loungers by the walls to another dancer; the music
caught new fire from crafty hands. Sebastian was the only per-
son much affected— he had dropped out of the dance and stood
a little removed now, gently stroking the monkey's back.

He could not have said why he had protected the little crea-
ture—the Latin has no great native tenderness for animals, and
while monkeys were a rarity in Minorca, no one but a mad
Englishman would buy such a thing. But as he looked into the
wrinkled and mournful face of the animal clinging at his breast,
he knew tnat he intended to keep it if he could, even take it with

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Stephen Vincent Benet

him on his travels. It was bad to refuse shelter to the shelterless,
and, though this petitioner had no soul, he came dressed as a
friar and so deserved the hospitality of a Christian— but those
were not the real reasons, "Besides, we are both alone in the
world," thought Sebastian— but that was no reason, either, for
a world where many were alone. What the true springs of his
action had been, he could not have said.

uYou shall have a little gold collar and sit on a perch when I
have my fifty acres," he confided to the monkey. The monkey,
hearing a new noise, thought he was to be beaten and looked up
prepared to bite—so it seemed to Sebastian as if he had under-
stood. After a moment Sebastian fumbled a piece of cord from
his pocket and tied one end about the monkey's neck— an atten-
tion the latter accepted with passive resignation— at least this
latest owner seemed quieter than the others. "There," said Se-
bastian. "No, you must not bite at the cord— we are going to
the Floridas, monkey, you and I— we shall be rich there, mon-
key," and he pulled his coat around further so the monkey should
be warm. Then his eyes turned away from his new possession and
lost themselves in watching the dance— and presently the girl
who had been his partner and whose face was like some flower
more savage than the rose came over and stood near him, her
fan moving in a slow regular beat that ruffled the soft black fur
on the top of the monkey's head.

PART ONE:

THE PRIDE OF THE COLONIES

Some five years later, the merchantman, "Pride of the Col-
onies," bound out of New York for St. Augustine, was running
before a fresh breeze down the blue, sparkling plain of the At-
lantic. The single passenger she carried, a young man named
Andrew Beard, was seated in a sort of improvised chair by the
lee-rail, watching the milk-streaked ribbon of her wake dwindle
out continually along the broad, endless back of the sea, with
that idle, rather pleasant monotony of mind which comes to
those who have been many days on the water without much

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active occupation. A small, brown, dumpy copy of Mr. Pope's
translation of the Iliad lay in his lap, and his forefinger mechani-
cally kept the place where he had left off reading. He had been
drawn from the book by a certain, inert curiosity as to whether
the color of the waters of any ocean might fitly be compared
with the color of wine— and having decided, sleepily, that not
even the palest vintages of the Rhine, beheld through green Vene-
tian glass, could match the occasional streaks or lucid emerald
where the trace of the ship's wake grew faint as the imprint of
a feather on velvet, had excused himself from further concern
at present with the doings of the well-greaved Achaeans.

He had never felt either so well or so lazy and New York
and the life he had led till this voyage began seemed very small
and distant— a diminutive red city with paper snow on its gables,
imprisoned in a glass bubble that the sea had washed away. To-
morrow, Captain Stout had said, they were likely to sight the
lighthouse on Anastasia Island, and journey's end— but at the
moment the journey still seemed infinite. It was impossible to
think that in a little while the last sound in his head as he fell
asleep at night would not be the strain of the breeze in the cord-
age and the complaint of wood against wind and water or that
he would ever rise again in the morning to look out upon a solid
and unfluctuating world. Nevertheless, these things would be so,
and swiftly. It behooved him, against his will, to think of what
lay in store for him beyond the, horizon, and why he had lived
all this time with a seashell held close to his ear.

A series of inconsecutive pictures passed before his eyes. He
was a little boy, stiffly seated in a high, banister-backed chair
before a gleaming mirror, his eyes sober with excitement, as that
most impressive of men, his father's barber, who lived in a shop
full of sweet-smelling bottles with a great gold basin hung over
the front door, arranged upon his shorn head with deft, pale,
long fingers the tiny, marvellous wig that had come in a box
from London, and, wonder of wonders, crowned it at last with
a little laced hat, just like his older brother's even to its Keven-
huller cock.

He smiled— how proud he had been of that ridiculous wig
and what a fight he had had with the butcher's boy who had
asked him jeeringly if old Sandy Beard was setting up for a Lord.
Fashions had changed, and little boys could wear their own hair

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Stephen Vincent Benet

now, even when their fathers were as important merchants as
Alexander Beard. The thought called up an image of his father's
huge, cool storehouses down by the water and a gang of Negroes,
singing together in rich, deep, mournful voices, as they unloaded
merchandise consigned to Alexander Beard and Son from a ship
just come to port from strangely-painted corners of the map.
Wherever the commerce of New York Colony voyaged, Alex-
ander Beard's name was known and his signature good.

The storehouses disappeared, and in their place, for some rea-
son, Andrew saw the silver-sanded floor of a Dutch kitchen. He
was munching an oelykoek and Gerrit Jans was telling him
stolidly of the wonders of St. Nicholas who stuffed the wooden
shoes of godly little boys in Holland with crullers and toy wind-
mills and silver skates on his name-day. . . . The heavy, flowery
scent of the catalpa-trees outside the King's Arms, on Broadway
between Crown and Little Prince Streets, where the officers
came from Fort George, mixed, somehow, with the odor of
mignonette and sweet-william in his mother's garden in the coun-
try. She was walking along the bricked path on a hot, Spring
morning, with her green calash shading her stern, fine face, and
a small painted basket of seeds in her hand.

Then he was one of a group of boys running home past the
Fort on a chill, green winter evening, not daring to look aside
lest Governor Sir Danvers Osborne, who had hanged himself on
the palisade after five days of office, should suddenly be dangling
there to appall them, with his silk-handkerchief noosed around
his neck ... he was sitting on his brother Lucius' knees watch-
ing the historic cockfight out on the Germantown road when
Massachusetts Boy had beaten and killed Mr. Signet's long-un-
defeated Cock of the North ... he was walking with his father
underneath the arches of the Exchange, unspeakably proud at
being allowed to hold his father's gold-headed cane and see him
converse with the great ones of the city.

The images faded. He sighed, lazily. Boyhood had been a
good time. If he had never been as dashing as Lucius, he had
always admired Lucius far too much to envy him and had been
well content to take second place. As for Peggy, poor child, he
certainly did not envy her—with her stiff, buckram stays clamped
on her round, adolescent body, and the long needle stuck upright
in the front of her dress for an hour each day to teach her to

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Spanish Bayonet

hold her chin erect as a young girl of quality should. Somewhere
among his baggage he had the letter case stitched with red and
green silk that had been her damp, parting gift to him— and how
she had begged him to bring her home a little alligator from the
Floridas! He smiled amusedly. He felt quite old enough to be
Peggy's grandfather, now that he was travelling alone on im-
portant business for his father— though he was only twenty-one
i-.nd she was fourteen.

By the way, he must look at his new case of pistols again. He
had been warned particularly against letting the sea-air rust
them. But the thought of the pistols brought up the troubled
state of the times to his mind, and his eyes narrowed. It seemed
to him that through all the years of his boyhood, New York had
been in a constant turmoil of celebrations and protests and plac-
ards on the walls. The Stamp Act— the Liberty poles— the repeal
of the Stamp Act and the new gilded statue or a togaed King
George ramping upon a fat, embarrassed charger in the Bowling
Green— the liberty boys with their rowdy songs and their con-
tinual scuffles with the soldiers— this tea business, now. Lucius, too
—he knew that his father suspected Lucius, for all his dandyism,
of secret affiliations with the more fashionable wing of the so-
called Friends of Liberty— young Gouverneur Morris and some
of the Livingston set. He himself did not care so much for young
Gouverneur Morris. His celebrated King's College oration upon
Wit and Beauty might be of as marbled an elegance as the con-
versation of Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia— but he wore a con-
scious little air of prodigy that irked Andrew's soul.

Andrew stirred, uneasily, and wondered what the latest news
was from the madmen in Boston. He remembered his father's
bitter description of that troublesome John Hancock— "a rattle-
tongued spendthrift who has wasted two fortunes on fine clothes
and sedition"— mincing along the streets at noonday in a scarlet
velvet cap, red morocco slippers and a blue damask gown. It
would have been fun, if you had been unlucky enough to be born
in Boston, to paint yourself up like an Indian and dump tea
chests into gray water. But it was a boy's exploit, for all that,
hardly worth the attention of a level-headed New Yorker. When
the New York tea-ship arrived, the world would see how a really
civilized colony dealt with such matters. He was sorry to be out
-of it all— the meeting of protest at the City Hall had been most

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Stephen Vincent Benet

impressive, though noisy. Still, it was quite unthinkable that the
present tangle would lead to anything really serious. They would
repeal the tea-tax as they had repealed the Stamp Act— such push-
ing Massachusetts gentry as Hancock and Sam Adams would be
taught a lesson— the Livingston faction sing smaller for a while—
and people drive out in Italian chaises to Turtle Bay for fish-sup-
pers to the end of time.

He yawned, and turning his head, took in the steady eyes and
the broad, leathery chest of the helmsman of the ship. For a
boyish moment he envied the man completely the easy strength
of his hands, and the blue tail of the tattooed mermaid disap-
pearing under his shirt. Then he told himself sternly that he had
pistols in his cabin, and at twenty-one, was already the master
of an errand that could command the bodies of a dozen such
able seamen. He tried over a phrase or two of textbook Spanish
in his mind and then, sailor and errand alike dismissed for the
moment, settled back to reading Mr. Pope's Homer at the pas-
sage where Hector bids Andromache farewell in the choicest
of Addisonian English.

2.

Nevertheless, in the privacy of his cabin that night, as he lay
on one arm, staring out through the open porthole at stars that
seemed already tropical and soft in a languid heaven, certain
fragments of his last long conversation with his father recurred
to his mind to trouble it obscurely. For one thing, not one of the
many excellent reasons for his present journey to the South had
seemed particularly urgent till the trouble over the tea-tax grew
to a head.

He had suffered from colds and occasional fever for some two
winters, and the doctor had diagnosed a weakness of the lungs
and recommended a sea-voyage toward warmer climates— that
was true enough. And it was undoubtedly true that, since his
health had not permitted him to finish his course of studies at
King's College, he should begin to learn the ins and outs of the
great merchant-house of Alexander Beard and Son. But there
had been something in his father's eyes, when they talked to-
gether of the trip, that had disquieted him. For one thing he had

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never conceived before that his father might be uncertain of or
puzzled by anything on earth.

He had started out firmly enough with, "Andrew—how's your
cough?"

"About the same, sir," said Andrew, coughing.

"H'm— sit down, lad—I thought so. Well, my son, you'll be rid
of it shortly, if Dr. Summerall knows his business. Can you sail
on the Tride of the Colonies' for St. Augustine two weeks from
now— on my business?"

"Yes sir," said Andrew, at once dumbfounded and very flat-
tered. It was the first time in his life that his father had treated
him entirely as an equal.

"Good son," said Alexander Beard and played with the feath-
ers of a goose-quill a moment. "It may be business of weight,
Andrew. I would go myself if," he hesitated, "if times were more
settled, d'ye see?— yes— I might go myself— but as things are—"
He frowned and lost himself in staring at something dubious
he seemed to see in the wood of the table. After a while, "You
may think it strange I don't send your brother," he said.

Here was something that Andrew, in the innocence of his
heart, had never even considered. The glittering Lucius seemed
to him far too splendid an adornment of the house of Beard to
be spared for any such errand. He said something of the sort.

"Your obleeged servant sir, I'm sure, but Lucius is a damned
macaroni!" said Alexander Beard abruptly, then, as Andrew
grew rigid with loyalty, "Sorry, boy— I lost my temper then—
but your brother, Lucius— if you can inform me why your brother
Lucius" (the goose-quill rapped on his knuckles) "makes such
friends of the pack of ranting Mohocks that set up barber's poles
to Liberty all over the town—"

"My brother, sir," said Andrew, stiffly, "has his own political
opinions, but—"

"But, but, but," said his father impatiently. "Oh your brother's
a damned fine fellow— but he'll marry that Livingston wench be-
fore he's done and set the De Lanceys against him for good and
all— if he doesn't do worse and go to bed with some Boston
madam who thinks Sam Adams is God Almighty because he
talks like a codfish. A plague on them all, I say-a plague out of
Egypt-" He threw the snapped goose-quill aside.

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Stephen Vincent Benet

Andrew was silent— his father's tempers were rare, but when
they came, they had to run their course. He tried not to hear
what his father was saying about the Livingstons and the De
Lanceys. His father's passionate reverence for James De Lancey,
the dead ex-Governor, had always irked him queerly, and he had
never been able to see the great, stately family coach roll by
behind its famous white horses without a secret feeling of dis-
content. He remembered the time it had drawn up before their
own door and the arrogant, courteous, languid gentleman who
was carried like a phial of holywater inside it had descended to
take a glass of Malaga with an Alexander Beard whose hands and
manner were suddenly and definitely obsequious. That had hap-
pened when Andrew was only a small boy, but the imprint of
it had remained on his mind. He had not been sorry, a little later,
to stand in the crowd and watch the long black worm of the
funeral procession wind slowly, with its gilt-escutcheoned hearse,
toward Trinity Church, while the minute guns from Copsey Bat-
tery tolled out the fifty-seven years of the dead man's life.

UA great gentleman," his father was saying. He sighed. "And
yet one that would drink his glass of wine in my house and never
once—" He checked himself.

Andrew stirred rebelliously. "Father! But why should not even
a gentleman like Governor De Lancey take wine in our house?"

"Why not indeed?" said his father, and smiled. "Why not in-
deed?"

The words were gently-spoken, but at their implication, An-
drew felt the steady world rock under his feet.

"But, Father, we— we've always been— gentle— haven't we?"

"Gentle enough, of a surety," said his father, with eyes averted.
"Or why should my eldest son be able to carry a sword?"

"But— the Beards of Westmoreland, sir—" said Andrew, horri-
fied. Somehow, he had always taken gentility for granted. Now,
in a brief moment, the very fabric of pleasant existence grew
infirm.

"Aye," said his father, quietly. "The Beards of Westmore-
land. Of a truth no one can say that there are not Beards in
Westmoreland," and he actually chuckled. For an instant Andrew
was appalled to find himself almost hating him. In his mind, he
had walked through the green, English park of that Westmore-
land estate a thousand times— he had rubbed the brown dust

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away with his finger from the names of the tombs in the chapel
that ran back before Elizabeth. And yet, now that he came to
think of it, park and manor-house and chapel alike had all been
built of the insubstantial stuff of his own imagination. His father
had never told him one word about his people. Now, suspicion
once awake, he could see those imaginary ancestors and their
signs of honor, crumble slowly to ash before him— leaving only
a shopkeeper's family, uneasy with new-got riches, their backs
supple whenever a gentleman passed in the street—and he felt
naked and ashamed.

Something of what he felt and thought must have been writ-
ten in his face, for "Dinna hurt yourself so, laddie," said his
father now, his speech slipped suddenly back to the burr of the
countryman, "That's the benefit of a new country. A man starts
more even. And your mother's folk are gentle—and— well— we
can all say with right that we're gentle, now. But nevertheless—
no, ye wouldn't understand— but when Governor De Lancey
came to my house—"

He left the words in the air, seeing their uselessness. What he
said was true. Andrew could not understand. He could not look
back through the years and see what his father saw— the little boy
in the rough fur cap and the blue-yarn stockings staring rouna-
eyed from the door of the catchpenny shop to see the fine gen-
tleman's coach whirl past in a glory of gilt and glass and tram-
pling white horses— the lank, burningly-ambitious, young man
with ink on his fingers who had found in James De Lancey a
patron worthy of worship. The little boy and young man had
come a long and hazardous way to the impressive new house
on the right side of Wall Street, with its fashionable cupola and
the Turkey carpets on its floors— but the stages of that epic were
hidden from Andrew, and father and son looked at each other
across a barrier that would not fall.

"Well, sir," said his father at last, breaking the deep silence,
"as to this matter of the Floridas— "

The ensuing conversation helped Andrew back on his feet
again at the time, though, remembered, certain things rose in a
cloud of silver bubbles to fret him. He had always known his
father's business interests wide, but now, for the first time, he
saw them unroll before him like a parti-colored map on the
dark table, and it made him proud. Even down in that strange,

Stephen Vincent Benet

hot, spicy peninsula so lately Spain's, his father's eyes saw the long
rows of indigo, cut down in the moment of flowering, and
counted the profit of traffic with swamp Indians, hidden like
alligators in the marshes, and the yield of fields of sugar cane he
had never seen in the flesh.

It appeared that his father had had some dealings already with
this Scotch Dr. Hilary Gentian who had brought his mixed cargo
of Minorcans, Greeks and Italians to colonize the hammock-
lands below St. Augustine. "An ingenious man, sir, but pressed
for money— and the men in London never understand that. They
think a colony grows as easily as a thistle patch, once it's seeded—
'tis more like an asparagus-bed— you can't expect returns for the
first few years." Yet there had been some returns already— the
indigo alone had brought in three thousand pounds during the
last year. "Then there are his sugar works— and the hemp and
maize and barilla. But they began with over two thousand souls
to feed and were much harassed by sickness, I understand. You
must be free with your glass, boy, when you reach there— they
say a free glass wards off the fevers."

Andrew listened dazzled, seeing the strange landscape rise be-
fore him with its blue sea and its tufted palms and its smell of
alien blossoms. And yet the deep-seated reason, if there were one,
for his immediate departure remained unexplained to him. Dr.
Gentian had been warned of his probable arrival— that made
Andrew blink a little— his father had never really mentioned the
project before. He was to remain at New Sparta for a number
of months at least— half-guest, half-apprentice in the ways of such
a plantation, always his father's agent. "I would have you write
me most fully of all that comes to your mind— particularly as to
whether such a venture as Dr. Gentian's might be profitably
copied by other gentlemen of sufficient fortune."

Now what had his father meant by that? Surely he could not
be thinking of transferring part of his interests to the distant
Floridas? But there was more. "Also, sir, and most particularly,
I would have you note the temper of the colony toward these
scatterbrains your brother admires so greatly. I have heard that
of all the colonies the Floridas alone feel no whistle-belly griev-
ance against the Crown. If that be so— and these Gadarene swine
that call themselves sons of Liberty start running their path to
the sea-"

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"But, sir, you cannot really think that—"

"I do not know," said his father, sombrely, "I do not know.
God knows there's no reason—but there. I only know where the
De Lanceys will stand— if it comes to more than speechifying.
And their interest is mine."

"But why must your interest go with any other man's inter-
est?" said Andrew, touchily— the sting still in the old wound his
father had reopened.

"Because it must, boy. The one sure loser in any conflict is
your neutral— and we're not patroons. It's lucky the Patroon's
a minor— they'll be out of it whatever happens. They'd think
me mad at the Coffee House if I told them what's at the back
of my mind, but let a few years pass and— if your mother could
see it as plain as I do and were better able to stomach the trials
of a new venture— But 'tis little use talking of that and things
may better somehow— You'll need a new fowling-piece and some
light sort of gear— they say the sun is hot, though not deadly as
it is in India—"

So the conversation had flickered out into a discussion of An-
drew's wardrobe and the climate, leaving him with a feeling of
mingled insecurity and pride. The abrupt extinction of those
long-cherished kinsfolk, the Beards of Westmoreland, rankled
now and then, but he could feel no scornful challenge to the ac-
cepted dignity of the house of Beard in the air of the city; and
a fowling-piece with silver mounts soon wiped out the freshness
of the hurt. On the whole he was too anxious to acquit himself
well and too awed by the vague magnitude of his responsibilities,
to give excessive thought to the gentility of his lineage, or the
lack of it.

It occurred to him more than once that his father might be
sending him away on a pretext to keep him from mixing too in-
timately with those friends of Lucius' who met every Thursday
to drink toasts of a porcupine saddle, a cobweb pair of breeches
and a long gallop to all enemies of Liberty. But even if the queer
constraint of Lucius' farewell seemed to bear this theory out-
he could not really believe in it when he thought it over. And it
was equally impossible to believe with reason that his father actu-
ally considered abandoning the house on Wall Street and the
cavernous storehouses by the docks for a palmetto-hut by a white-
shawled strip of sand just because a row of wigs in a vague

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Stephen Vincent Benet

House of Parliament over the water had decided to impose a
duty on certain, small, black dried leaves. And yet—

The days of the voyage gave him time to follow many such
speculations to no conclusion. Of only one thing could he be sure.
The fabric of life had always seemed secure and definite before
—now he felt it give under his feet like a floor of fresh pine-
boughs and saw things begin to grow unfamiliar that had always
been familiar as water and light.

He gave the problem up and began to wonder drowsily just
what he would find at New Sparta. Dr. Gentian had a Greek
wife and a pair of daughters— or was it a daughter? He saw a tall,
high-breasted girl with the face of Nausicaa— then her features
sharpened— feathers came on her arms— was she harpy or eagle?—
He did not know, but there was a soft thunder of wings about
him for an instant, that passed away into the rumble of a cart
over the paving-stones, a cart bringing sweet water to the house
from the Tea- Water Pump— a blackamoor got out of it, dressed
in his brother Lucius' best scarlet coat and was offering him a
basket of indigo in the name of Liberty as he fell asleep.

The rumble of the cart was in his ears again as he woke, but
he translated it swiftly into accustomed sounds. Bare feet ran
on the deck above him to the piping whine of the bosun's
whistle— cries answered a bawling voice. He jumped out of his
bunk and felt something knock at his heart. Through the round
porthole, like a picture held in the circle of a spyglass, was the
white stone thumb of a lighthouse and a crawling line of foam
on a beach— then, across more water, the vivid green of unex-
pected pines and the solid bones of land. The land had been an
indented, meaningless line to starboard before, vanishing and re-
appearing again like a casual, evanescent mark scrawled hastily
on the surface of the universal sea— now it lay broad across the
path in a continent, and the sea shrank back again from the
illimitable and savage world into measurable blue water, fretting
the sides of a cup of rock and sand. He dressed hastily, in a
mounting excitement and ran up on deck.

"Have to anchor outside the bar, sir," said Captain Stout. "The

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Pride's a lady— she draws more'n eight feet of water, she does—
Now if she was one of your nasty little French baggages, 'which
she ain't—"

Andrew nodded sagely, paying little attention. Now the actual
land lay so plump before them, he felt a vast, unreasonable im-
patience at the various petty motions that must be gone through
before they could set foot on it. The air seemed to him to smell
of oranges already and he stared through the captain's spyglass
feverishly, as if doing so would transport him at once to the
shore.

"That's the Fort," said the Captain, pointing, "Spanishy-look-
ing affair, / call it— see the lobster-back walking post? Cathedral's
over there— don't know as you can make it out—" He chuckled,
"Queer souls, Spaniards, and that's a fact," he confided. "No spit
and polish about them— no, sir. Don't even have any Christian
sort of a bellringer in the church— just a lame old codger to
rattle the bells with a stick."

Andrew turned to him with a thousand questions on his
tongue.

"How soon before we—"

"Oh, they know we're here," said the Captain, chuckling again.
"See that boat, Mr. Beard? Shouldn't be surprised if Dr. Gentian
was aboard her." His throat suddenly became a leather trumpet.
"Aye, Mister Mate?" he roared. He turned away.

The black, struggling bug in the waves jumped into a long-
boat as Andrew put the glass to his eye again. He could see the
sweat start on the backs of the eight Negro rowers as their oars
rose and fell in thrashing dumb-show. But the figure in the stern-
sheets was what held his gaze— if it could be Doctor Gentian.

He had expected such a different personage. A Scotch army-
surgeon turned planter suggested, somehow, a tall, rawboned,
iron-mouthed dragoon in patched kilts and a palmetto hat. This
spruce, erect little figure with the chin and eyes of Caesar was
dressed in black superfine broadcloth, with Mechlin ruffles at the
throat and wrists. His wig was freshly powdered, his gold-laced
hat cocked in the fine extreme of fashion— even Lucius, Andrew
thought, might have been a little awed by the sombre perfection
of his attire. Andrew suddenly realized the incongruity of his
own apparel with a start. He had dressed hastily, in the clothes

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he had worn during most of the voyage. After one glance through
the spyglass at his host, the glazed hat borrowed from a sailor
on his own head, the loose shirt and wide breeches he had thought
so aptly nautical, made him feel as if he had strolled into White's
in London painted like a Seneca chief. He cast a wild glance
around him, but it was too late. They were lowering the Jacob's
ladder already. In a moment Dr. Gentian would be aboard.

"Ahoy, Pride of the Colonies!" came a sharp clear voice from
the water. "Ahoy, Captain Stout!"

"Ahoy sir!" called the Captain. "Stand by the ladder for Dr.
Gentian, you sons of sweeps, or by God I'll— We've a passenger
aboard for ye, Doctor!"

The spruce little Caesar in black broadcloth called back some-
thing that the wind blew away. Then he was coming up the
Jacob's ladder as nimbly as a fly. Andrew shivered with annoy-
ance and embarrassment. Why hadn't the Captain told him the
Doctor was like this?

"Mr. Beard?" said the man whom Andrew had visualized as a
kilted dragoon. There was a fresh breeze blowing, but not a
drop of spray seemed to have spotted his black silk stockings and
he stepped across the spattered deck with the quick daintiness of
a cat. "Your obliged, obedient servant, Mr. Beard." A ring winked
on his outstretched hand.

"Nay, yours, sir," said Andrew, diffidently, and stood staring.

He liked Dr. Gentian at first sight— there was something very
merry about his mouth. Moreover, he had obviously taken in
Andrew's strange attire at one rapid glance, and yet the sight had
not perceptibly increased his merriment.

Captain Stout came bumbling up in a sort of respectful fury.

"Servant, Doctor Gentian— so you've met your passenger?—
good, sir. You'll find him a bit broadened out since he started to
voyage with us— none of your night-sweats now, eh, Mr. Beard?—
and if you could have seen him set to his victuals after the first
natteral squeamishness, sir— By God, the first day out, I thought
he'd puke the very anchor up— but after that—"

Andrew felt with abhorrence that his ears were reddening, but
Dr. Gentian saved him.

"The sea plays odd tricks on the best of us," he said easily,
"I have seen an Admiral of the Blue hold his head in his cabin
and wish himself a turnip-patch back on land— the first day out."

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Spanish Bayonet

He turned to Andrew, "I am glad to hear our good captain is so
excellent a victualler. Do you snuff, Mr. Beard?"

"Thank you, sir," said Andrew gratefully, his fingers fumbling
at fine rappee in a gold-and-tortoise shell box. The little act
somehow set himself and Dr. Gentian apart from the effusive
Captain in a world where the immodest allusions of such captains
to nausea and victuals were the permitted liberties of old family
servants.

"A weakness of mine, I fear," sighed Dr. Gentian, after an
elegantly-managed sneeze. Andrew's sneezes had been far less
elegant but he noted gratefully that Dr. Gentian had not been
critical. Now, though, he grew a little brisk.

"But we must have you ashore, Mr. Beard, as soon as may suit
your convenience. Have you breakfasted?"

"Not yet," said Andrew, suddenly conscious that he wished
to very much.

Dr. Gentian put his palms together softly. "Excellent. Then
you must do me the honor of breakfasting with me at Judge
Willo's— we must set out for New Sparta, tomorrow, I fear,
but meanwhile it is only fit you should meet some of the gentry
of the town. Perhaps Captain Stout would favor us, also—"

"Thankee, Doctor." Somehow the captain had deflated in the
last few minutes and seemed awkwardly aware of it. "But I
shan't get ashore much before noon, you know—"

"You deprive us of a pleasure, I assure you." The Doctor was
smiling again, "Mr. Beard, I venture to hope, will not be so
harsh."

"Delighted— certainly— Doctor Gentian," stammered Andrew
onfusedly, "but— my luggage—"

"I am sure our good captain can send what you find most
Accessary with us— the heavier luggage can follow later. I have
already settled for the services of a barber for you, in case you
should need him. A sea-voyage is always trying to one's razors.
If there is anything else— you have only to command me— I have
a little business to transact with the captain— but if you could be
ready to go ashore with your small baggage in half an hour— Your
servant till then, sir."

"Yours," said a slightly bewildered but flattered Andrew, and
stumbled down below to strip himself hastily of the glazed hat
in which he had taken such pride and to thank his stars that he

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had abandoned the transient idea of having the bosun tattoo the
Royal Arms of Great Britain in blue across his chest.

The evening air was light with the frail sweetness of crepe-
myrtle; a little wind stirred in the trees like the ghost of a
humming-bird. In Judge Willo's dining-room, the cloth had long
been drawn and the branched silver candlesticks at either end
of the table cast shadowy pools of light that seemed to sink into
the grain of the dark mahogany. The wreck of the dessert lay
scattered like the relics of a battlefield— a great china punchbowl
of bombo had succeeded the St. Lucar wine and gentlemen were
beginning to be flushed and loquacious. Andrew, seated between
Judge Willo and Dr. Gentian in the post of honor, sipped slowly
at the cool deceptive compound of grated nutmeg, sugared water
and Antigua rum, and felt a great indefinite affection for all
humanity in general and the Floridas in particular rise in his heart.

He was wearing his best India-muslin cravat, his hair/ was
clubbed and powdered, he felt clean and gay and at ease. Already
he loved this little, lazy city whose trees were hung with the
golden balls of oranges and whose houses were built of a multi-
tude of tiny seashells weathered into stone. He would be sorry
to leave it in the morning— the projecting balconies of the old
Spanish dwellings had printed their shape on his heart. Many
times, in the dreams before dawn, in the cold hour, he would
wander the narrow swept streets, for years unmarred by the
track of any wheeled vehicle, where the Spanish ladies in the old
time had walked in their satin ball-slippers, at evening, with a
languid grace.

He finished his glass of bombo with an air of wise melancholy
—life was like that. The glass was refilled— he drank again, ab-
stractedly, using on the world. Life was like that, yes. Life was
an orange-tree— an orange-tree in flower— and he was getting a
little drunk.

Only two things marred his perfect content— his interview with
the Governor and the fact that his best shoe-buckles had been
slightly tarnished by the sea-air. The Governor was a petulant,
worried person who had treated him like a boy. But Dr. Gentian
had behaved to the man with freezing civility and apologized for

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Spanish Bayonet

him to Andrew later. "An honest gentleman, Mr. Beard, but alas,
no friend of mine." "Then no friend of mine, sir, I'll warrant
ou!" Andrew had cried sagaciously and Dr. Gentian had thanked
im gravely and explained. It appeared that the best of St. Augus-
tine was with them in lacking the Governor's approval.

The candles were growing very bright. Judge Willo's voice
in his ear besought him to tell the company again the ridiculous
tale of Governor Tryon's escape in his shirt from his burning
house and how only the heavy snow on the roofs of the city had
saved New York from a general conflagration that winter. It was
an effort to find the proper words, but when he did, he was well
repaid, for all the gentlemen laughed like thunder and Dr. Gentian
clapped him on the back and called him a very Harry Fielding for
choiceness of wit. Then he tried to repeat some verse of Phillis
Wheatley's, the young Negro poetess who had just made such a
stir, but broke down in the middle and only saved himself by
saying that he hoped they understood he had meant no dis-
respect to Governor Tryon by his story.

"Governor Tryon's worthy gentleman," he heard himself re-
peating. "They called him the Black Wolf in the Carolinas— but
he's for the King! And we're all for the King here, aren't we—
and damnation to liberty-boys? Who isn't for the King here?"
he asked uncertainly, but his query was drowned in a roar of
applause as they all stood up and drank to the King. Andrew,
drinking too, felt the tears come to his eyes at the thought of
such splendid loyalty to the King. He tried to picture the King
to himself— he felt he should— but the features kept getting more
and more uncertain.

A second bowl of bombo succeeded the first and, some time
later, Andrew found himself by a window, gazing out into the
garden. His legs seemed subject to occasional, inexplicable wab-
blings, but the night air, cool on his forehead, was a great re-
freshment. He glanced back at the room— a stertorous huddle of
scarlet on the floor must be that pleasant Major from the garrison,
succumbed at last to bombo and the force of gravity— the gentle-
man in plum-colored velvet whose name he could not remember
was asleep with his head in a bowl of nuts— Judge Willo seemed
to be making indefinite attempts at song. Andrew felt a great
pride that he was still soberly on his feet.

Stephen Vincent Benet

"They say our moonlight here is brighter than yours in the
North," said the serene voice of Dr. Gentian in his ear.

" 'Tis very bright, in all conscience," said Andrew a little
thickly. The Doctor's glass had been filled as often as any, but
he seemed as yet quite untouched by the revel. The small, demure,
merry mouth was composed and peaceful, the calm face showed
only a tinge of added color, the slight pressure of the fingers on
Andrew's elbow was firm and springy as a vise of tough, light
whalebone.

"Shall we stroll in the garden a moment and let the air freshen
us?"

Andrew assented, with an effort, but a fuddled cry of "Gen-
tian! One moment, Gentian!" called the Doctor away for a
moment and Andrew remained at the window, gazing up at the
sky and trying to keep a sparkling wheel from whirring about in
his head.

The moonlight was bright indeed, the moon huge and pale,
the garden crowded with silver trees and flowers. At its foot grew
a single bush of Spanish bayonet which seemed to Andrew, as he
stared, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, for it too was
in flower, and the single stalk of waxen petals rose out of the
green spikes of the plant like a cold plume set upon a barbarous
crest. Andrew filled his eyes with the sight of it— it seemed to
him, suddenly, as if he had run his hand into the very soil of this
new country and touched its heart. Not even the orange-groves
could so explain the nature of the land, for they were fruitful
and, after a fashion, tamed, but this bush of thorns gave nothing
to man but a single bloom of moonlight, serene, careless and
wholly pure. More northern latitudes could not suffer such a
creation— only in the hot night of the south could the ivory frond
arise from among edged blades to challenge a tropic star.

As Andrew considered this, he felt just on the edge of some
great discovery— some immense understanding— some gift of
tongues— but Dr. Gentian's hand was lightly imperious on his arm
again, and he was being led outside to have his eyes dazzled by
the moon. The half-made discovery slipped away— the gift of
tongues was forgotten. There remained only a leaden body and
a flight of stairs unnaturally steep and limitless, up which he was
being assisted to lie down at last in a bed that whirled into spin-
ning darkness.

Spanish Bayonet

Three days later the events of that evening were forgotten
phantasmagoria, and only the shape of the Spanish bayonet stood
out distinct and fruitful in Andrew's memory. To have been
drunk in good company was nothing to be ashamed of— but the
long next day in the saddle had been torment, in spite of all
Dr. Gentian's solicitude— and the following one had found
Andrew sober enough, but stiff and sore. The third day, how-
ever, almost made him regret that they would reach the end of
their journey at evening. The air had been flawless since dawn,
his first saddle-weariness had abated a little, and he had begun
to notice the details of the land.

All morning they had ridden through low barrens, smelling
of pine-needles—then the road had turned to swampier country,
where red cane fringed the edge of the spongy bay-galls and a
thrown stone went in with a sucking sound. Over languid creeks
bridged with cedar-planking the road took its way— past swamps
where mosquitoes buzzed and alligators slept and rotting ancient
trees were hung with Spanish moss like witches' hair— then wound
up into the woods again.

They had passed a woodrat's disorderly house of sticks and
seen the rat run chattering up a tree with a young rat hanging
to its tail. They had slept in the green russell chamber of a
manor-house whose furnishings would not have shamed the
Patroon and whose master entertained them with music upon the
German flute; they had plucked dwarf wild-oranges from
stunted, untended trees and ridden, at evening, up a grassy avenue
heavy with the sweetness of magnolia-bloom; and once Andrew
had seen a cinnamon-colored Indian stare at them for a moment
out of the tangled underbrush with eyes black as obsidian beads,
to vanish among the leaves as noiselessly as a puff of dandelion
seed. Now the shadows were long with late afternoon, the
road skirted the river, and New Sparta was near.

"There," said Dr. Gentian as they came to a fork in the road.

Andrew followed the line of his hand and made out a clot of
white among distant trees. "The upper road is ours, Mr. Beard—
the lower goes down to the colony itself. You shall see it soon
enough. For the present," he smiled, "I imagine you have ridden

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hard enough these last days to postpone the pleasure. The best
lands are farther down the river— that is why you see no signs of
our industry here."

"I thought you lived in the colony itself, sir," said Andrew,
making conversation.

"Not precisely," Dr. Gentian was very amiable. "My own
house is over a mile from the wharves— you see, indigo needs space
and we have more than a thousand souls in the settlement itself—
there were more at first but one always loses a number when men
are transplanted to a new climate—"

He chatted on, describing his newly-finished sugar-mill and the
system of irrigation he had recently completed. Andrew fell
more and more under the spell of that easy, Caesarean voice. Be-
side this man, with his tales of strange travel in the Indies and the
Greek Islands, with his casual chat of the great ones of London
and Paris, even Alexander Beard began to seem 2 little provincial.
Now he quoted a passage from the Georgics to illustrate a point
in husbandry, and turned from that to a discussion as to whether
Dr. Goldsmith's "She Stoops to Conquer," witty though it was,
might fitly be compared to the best of the comedies of Plautus.
Andrew felt his own mammoth ignorance descend upon him like
a heavy velvet pall and thought humbly that Lucius should have
come in his place. He resolved to write to Lucius for the best
edition of Plautus procurable at Garret Noel's bookshop before
the week was out.

He was so engaged in trying to listen intelligently that he did
not notice how the road stole away from the river again; and
the goal of their three days' ride was almost upon him before he
realized it. The great, white coquina house s€bod on a slight rise
of ground, its stables and outbuildings massed behind it. There
were lights in its windows, for twilight had fallen, and as the
tired horses pricked their ears and whinnied at the thought of
oats, servants came running out with lanterns and hubbub. An-
drew knew suddenly that he was very tired and struggled from
his saddle at last with the stiff awkwardness of a marionette. He
was glad to throw the horse's reins tc a grinning little boy, but
too weary to pay much attention to the bustle about him.

"My dear," said Dr. Gentian and kissed a tall woman with
a proud nose and a secret mouth delicately upon the cheek.

Spanish Bayonet

"This is our young friend from New York, Mr. Beard, my dear,"
and Andrew made his manners dutifully to a worn comely hand
and words of greeting that had a foreign slur in them. Then there
was another hand, warm and pleasant to touch, and he was being
introduced to a yellow-haired girl with eyes gray and changing
as winter cloud— "My daughter—Miss Sparta Gentian." But she
was not at all like his image of Nausicaa and Andrew felt vaguely
disappointed. Then he only knew that he was hobbling up the
steps of the porch in a disgracefully ungenteel manner, but he
could not help it for each of his boots was made of solid stone.

Strength and curiosity returned to him with food and wine,
and at last, seated alone with Dr. Gentian while the Madeira
passed between them the way of the sun, he began to appraise
the circumstances of his new environment.

"You will find we live in simple rusticity, Mr. Beard," Dr.
Gentian had said— but if these were Florida notions of simple
rusticity! It was true that the servants were not in livery and
that the dress of the Gentian ladies was not quite in the latest
mode, but otherwise, from the old silver plate on the sideboard
to the new forte-piano with Lord Kelly's Overtures upon it in
the drawing-room, Andrew might have thought himself enjoying
the famous hospitality of a Philipse or a William Walton the
elder. That was certainly a fruit-piece by Vandermoulen on the
wall, and the Indian chintz hangings of his own bedroom could
not have been bettered at the fashionable upholsterer, Joseph
Cox's.

His eye was caught by the flash of a green stone on Dr. Gen-
tian's finger. There was cold, precious light in the stone like the
light at the bottom of the eyes of a great cat.

"A quaint setting," said his host, politely, "I had it when I
served in India. The Begum happened to think me a practitioner
in the black arts." He rose, "Shall we join the ladies?"

In the flowered drawing-room, the tall woman with the proud
nose and the secret mouth was embroidering upon catgut-gauze
with a needle tiny as a fairy's spear and the gray-eyed girl who
was not like Nausicaa was seated at the forte-piano, playing. She
broke off as they came in.

"I beg you will not cease your playing, Miss Gentian," said
Andrew, awkwardly. "I am devoted to the forte-piano," he

Stephen Vincent Benet

added, feeling the words were foolish as soon as they were out
of his mouth.

"Then I shan't dare continue," said the girl carelessly. "My
strumming must sound like a rigadoon on a milkpan to the ears
of such a connoisseur— from New York—"

"Miss Gentian— I implore you," said Andrew, embarrassed.

"Oh, if you'll promise me no criticism, I'll play, sir— or sing
perhaps— 'tis too hot for playing alone— the piano sounds like a
locust in August— heat— heat— heat— " she drummed it out on the
keys, impatiently. "But sing, sing, what shall I sing? Shall it be
Charley over the Water, father, to remind you of the Forty-Five
—or let me see— 'Bobby Shaftoe,' for Mr. Beard— 'Bobby Shaftoe's
come from sea— Silver buckles on his— shoon— " she hummed with
gipsy impertinence and Andrew winced as he saw her eyes fixed
mockingly on his shoe-buckles— "Come, fine ladies and gentlemen
—what d'ye lack— lack— "

"Sing 'Beauty Retire,' daughter," said her father quietly. His
eyes were intent upon hers and it seemed to Andrew as if he
were witnessing some obscure and inaudible struggle of wills
between them— a struggle watched by the tall woman in the chair
with great weariness of mind.

"That old thing? Oh, very well— I'm a dutiful daughter. You'll
pardon our rusticity, Mr. Beard— we have none of your New York
novelties here in songs or ladies—" She struck a chord on the
forte-piano as if she hated it, and began to sing.

"Beauty retire— retire— " she sang,

"Retire— retire, thou dost my pity move
Believe my pity and then trust my love—"

Her voice was extraordinarily pure and moving. Andrew, lis-
tening, thought of skeins of rock-crystal, flecked through and
through with tiny flakes of the softest gold— of a golden box
where a crystal bird beat and beat its wings in trammelled, scorn-
ful delight. Her face had turned grave as she sang, and a
little drowsy, as if some excess of vitality came to her through
the act of singing and suffused the veins of her heart with a
sleepy power. She was like a child now, Andrew thought— a
beautiful, daunting child—

Spanish Bayonet

The song ceased, and Andrew, back in his chair again, stam-
mered some sort of compliment. But she would not sing again.
Instead she professed an interest in paduasoys and cordova-water
and the genuineness of the reported mode in sage-green cloaks
trimmed with ermine. Andrew, trying vainly to remember the
cut of the sleeves on the last fashion doll from London, made
but heavy weather of it. But he did not mind, for the girl
seemed to have forgotten her obvious first intention of being
rude to him, and he was able to watch the play of her smooth
hands as she talked. Her foreign strain came out in that, he
thought— no New York girl of his acquaintance would have ges-
tured with such fluid deftness. He saw her hands for a moment
as separate and living creatures, molding Tanagra clay to the
shape of a precious urn.

Then at last Dr. Gentian was offering him a candlestick and he
was bidding them all good night. He happened to say good night
to the daughter last of all and the warm touch of her hand went
with him all the way up the stairs, as if he had dipped his fingers
in quicksilver for an instant and seen them come out silvered.
Dr. Gentian accompanied him to his door.

"Good night, Mr. Beard. You will find the mosquito-net at
the foot of your bed a necessity. We are not so much troubled
with them here as down at the colony— but they have a particular
passion for strangers."

"Many thanks for the warning, sir," Andrew smiled. "Good
night."

The smiling little Caesar in black broadcloth passed down the
long corridor with a wavering flame in his hand and disappeared.
Andrew turned toward his own door, yawning. A spot of hot
wax fell on the back of his hand— he swore and dropped his
candle, which fuffed and went out. He groped blindly for it in
the sudden pitch a moment and then stood up. Another will-o'-
the-wisp of light trembled far down the corridor, and came
nearer. He waited— perhaps the Doctor had noted his misadven-
ture and was coming back with a new candle for him.

The will-o'-the-wisp grew and became a candle held in the
hands of a girl. For a moment he thought, with a beat in his
heart, that it might be Sparta Gentian, but it was not. This girl
seemed about Miss Gentian's age and height but the faint, decep-

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tive flame she carried illuminated dark brows and darker eyes,
a skin tinctured with the sun, a mouth ripened by it. Seen thus,
in a weak halo of light which defined no more than head and
shoulders and hands, the features were startlingly like those of
some worn young Madonna of olivewood in the stone niche of
a Spanish church, and Andrew excused himself easily enough
for watching from his dark doorway.

No, she was not beautiful as Sparta Gentian was, in the way
of a golden rose, but she had her qualities. The face was at once
more reticent and more untamed— the manner had an odd dignity
as of one who lives in oppression but is not afraid. He thought
of the Spanish bayonet, in flower in Judge Willo's garden, under
the swimming moon. Then he realized with a little shock, as the
girl drew nearer, that from her dress she must be a servant in
the house, and stepped forward abruptly to borrow light from
her taper.

"Can you—" he began, but got no further, for the girl saw
him suddenly, cried out, and dropped her candle, which went
out instantly, leaving the corridor a pit of black velvet. He heard
footsteps running away from him and called again, but there
was no reply. He stayed futilely in the corridor for some time,
cursing himself for forgetting that any serving-wench might well
be frightened at a strange voice speaking suddenly out of gloom,
and waiting for sounds that would tell him his idiocy had aroused
the house. But the running footsteps ceased after a brief moment
as if they had plunged into quicksand, and were followed by no
sound at all. At first he was more than glad of this— then the
continued quiet began to finger at his spine.

The girl had made noise enough to wake any ordinary set of
sleepers, yet no one seemed to have stirred. And why had she
cried out just once, when he first spoke to her and not again—
a frightened maid in most houses would have screamed her throat
dry. He stood uneasily in his doorway till doing so began to seem
ridiculous, of a sudden feeling insecure and a stranger in a soft
-and hostile night. Then he went into his room and shut his door
very carefully as if to shut out entirely the deeper darkness in
the corridor. But he had an uncanny feeling that it seeped in after
him, and would have given a gold Johannes to be able to find his
tinder-box. Presently, though, his eyes became more accustomed
to the gloom. He thought of the clear stream of Sparta Gentian's

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Spanish Bayonet

voice as it flowed over golden sand in "Beauty Retire" and
hummed to himself as he undressed in the dark.

6.

The morning was so bright and calm, that he could afford to
laugh at his fears of the night. He found one of the light striped-
cotton suits that Mr. Windlestraw at the Sign of the Needle and
Shears had assured him were all the fashion in the Southern
Colonies and put it'on. From his window he could see Dr. Gen-
tian walking about his garden. The merry-mouthed Doctor
seemed all content this morning, he was whistling a tune as he
walked and now and then paused to smell at a flower or chirrup
to a bird. He wore a broad leaf-hat and a flowered dressing-gown
and looked more comfortably like the planter of Andrew's
imagination. When Andrew bade him good morning, he found
him observing a hedged-in patch of cactus on which tiny, red
and brown insects crawled like baby lady bugs.

"Observe an industry that shames lazy fellows like you and
myself, Mr. Beard," he called gayly as Andrew came up to
him. "Those are cochineal insects— they have but two ends in
life— to eat and make dye for our garments. I am experimenting
with them now— perhaps next year we can produce the dye in
quantities worth your London merchants' notice. Strange, is it
not, that a little bug should carry royal colors in its belly?"

He delicately shook a few of the insects in his cupped palm
and extended it for Andrew's inspection. They ran about it
like tiny drops of blood, in an intent, blind busyness. Andrew
looked at them with interest, feeling it strange that they did not
stain the Doctor's white hand. The man was certainly a com-
pound of the most diverse interests. Now one of the insects
fell from the enclosing hand. The Doctor set his foot on it, idly.
Andrew shivered.

"After breakfast you shall make the grand tour of our settle-
ment," promised the Doctor, replacing the other insects on their
fleshy green feeding-place with exquisite care.

Two things stuck in Andrew's mind particularly from that
first confused trip of inspection— the babbling sound of water
in the network of irrigation-canals that made New Sparta like
a tropical Venice of palmetto and coquina— and the stink of the

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rotting indigo in the great vats in the fields where it was steeped
and beaten and settled. He had never encountered such an over-
powering and all-pervasive stench or such clouds of flies. "You
may understand now, why my own house is built some distance
from the fields," said the Doctor, offering Andrew the gilt
pomander he carried in his hand, and Andrew, putting it grate-
fully to his nose, understood indeed.

"I don't see how your men endure it," he confessed.

"Oh— they grow accustomed," said the Doctor, carelessly. He
addressed a question in lilting Italian to a bronzed statue whose
naked neck crawled with flies. The statue grinned nervously with
white teeth and replied.

"He says it stinks no worse than a Minorcan," translated the
Doctor, smiling. "You would think that when men came to a
new country they might give up the narrower prejudices of
race— but not so. My Italians hate my Minorcans and my Greeks
hate them both. There is always bad blood between one or the
other. Of course they intermarry, too, but that only makes things
worse."

He spoke casually, as of a herd of serviceable but unruly ani-
mals, and Andrew sympathized with him. The headship of a
mixed colony such as this, must be a constant balancing upon
thorns, though the Doctor did not seem bowed down. He walked
among his men with the easy grace of a beast-tamer, and yet,
Andrew noticed, with the same alert and penetrating eye.

"But which are the Minorcans?" said Andrew, vaguely look-
ing for some odd, distinctive type of body or skull, as they
passed along.

The Doctor smiled. "There is one," he said, pointing. "That
fellow testing the vat. I forget his name."

Andrew looked. Four men with their trousers rolled above
their knees and their legs stained with dye-water were churning
the liquor in the beating-vat with a lever that had two bottom-
less square buckets at either end; and a younger man, at the side,
was stooping over occasionally to dip out some of the liquor in
a wooden cup and test it. Andrew caught his breath as he looked
at this man; he thought he had never seen so fine a human crea-
ture. The fellow was of the middle height and seemed of
Andrew's years— but so perfectly and aptly proportioned was
he that Andrew felt himself clumsy and rudely-fashioned in com-

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parison. The sun, which had fairly blackened the skins of many
of the colonists, had only browned him to the deep tawniness of
fine Spanish leather, his face wore the aloof dignity of a sombre
prince, and every movement of his body was as deft as a gym-
nast's. Andrew could have visualized him far more easily dispens-
ing justice from a stone chair of state or riding a horse to war
clad in antique armor, than stirring indigo-muck. He said some-
thing of the sort.

"A good man, though sullen like most of them," Dr. Gentian
agreed. "All the Mahonese are a fine-looking lot. Meaninglessly
fine. The Greeks are much sharper. But that fellow knows his
business. Few of them can judge a test rightly— and judgment's
the secret of indigo-culture— for if the beating and churning there
is stopped too soon some of the dye-matter stays in solution and
if beat too long it begins to dissolve again. Either way you get
bad indigo. This is the second cutting now— we hope for five
cuttings this season if all goes well. The profit will mean we can
finish our fort and add to the sugar-works. The fort will lie
over there— it commands the wharves and the storehouses—"

Andrew looked across fields checkered with irrigation and be-
held vast raw foundations of coquina.

"I should not have thought you needed so large a defensive
work in a peaceable colony," he said, somewhat astonished. He
had already noted the colony's guard-house with its garrison of
eight bored soldiers— but this new work would hold a company,
at least, and was planned for cannon.

"We had trouble here two years ago," said Dr. Gentian briefly.
"The ringleaders were hanged in St. Augustine. And then— most
of the Indians are peaceable enough— but Cowkeeper, the Creek
Chief, is a mischief-maker. Ah, Mr. Cave," as a heavy-set man
in his thirties, with a red, sweating face and odd, crumpled-look-
ing ears, came toward them with his broad hat in his hand.

"This is Mr. Beard, Mr. Cave— the young gentleman I was
speaking of before I went to St. Augustine. Mr. Cave, our chief
overseer, Mr. Beard—"

"Servant, I'm sure," grunted Mr. Cave in a piggy voice and
stared at Andrew intently. His eyes w«re a dull, hard blue, with
reddened rings about them, and Andrew felt uncomfortable
under their gaze.

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Stephen Vincent Benet

"Mr. Cave comes from an English family," said Dr. Gentian
pleasantly. "He is my right hand."

He laid his fingers on Mr. Cave's bare forearm, as if in ac-
knowledgment of Mr. Cave's abilities, and Andrew saw the
muscles twitch an instant under that light touch.

"Dr. Gentian's very kind," said Mr. Cave defiantly. "He knows
how to treat a man, Dr. Gentian does."

"Mr. Cave flatters me sadly," said the Doctor, sniffing his
pomander. "He is aware how indispensable he is to us all. You
and Mr. Cave must be better acquainted, Mr. Beard. We must
have Mr. Cave to supper— tonight, perhaps," he continued re-
flectively. "Will you sup with us tonight, Mr. Cave?"

"Thank you sir. You're very kind indeed," said Mr. Cave,
again with that strange rebelliousness in his voice. Andrew
thought him a queer, ungenteel sort of person and wondered at
the Doctor's tolerance of his eccentricities. But doubtless he made
a good chief-overseer.

"And, by the way," said Dr. Gentian, amiably, "you must
be provided with a body-servant, Mr. Beard— I grieve I did not
think of it before. Perhaps Mr. Cave would recommend us one.
Shall it be a Greek, Mr. Cave— or an Italian— or one of your
favorite Mahonese?"

"Don't ask me, sir," growled Mr. Cave with a bull-like shake
of his head. "They all look alike to me— the lot of them. Not
one of them's worth a sucked sugar cane, if you want my advice."

"Come, come, Mr. Cave, we must not belittle our good
colonists," said the Doctor in light reproof that made Mr. Cave's
muscles twitch anew. He turned to Andrew. "What preference
have you, Mr. Beard?"

"I am confident that anyone Mr. Cave recommends," said
Andrew, a little puzzled. Mr. Cave gave a brief, uncivil bark of
laughter. "But I did not understand— I thought they were all
free colonists— I mean— I did not think they would be willing to
do body-service for a—"

"Oh, we'll have no trouble with that," said Dr. Gentian, briskly.
"All free colonists, of course— but lazy fellows, you know, Mr.
Beard— lazy fellows like most of us—" he chirruped in tones of
mock condemnation. "Any one of them would be only too glad
to get out of the fields for a while and take life easy in the cool
of the big house. I admit it was not my first intention to use them

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for such work. I had a shipload of Negroes on the way—but the
ship was wrecked," he sighed, "and the sea ate up my poor
blackamoors—a pity— a great pity— I've not felt justified in ex-
pending further monies on slaves since then, so we've had to
scratch along as best we cotfld. By the way," he continued airily,
"I understand you had an encounter with my daughter's maid last
night— she's a Mahonese."

"I beg to assure you sir— it was very clumsy of me—" said
Andrew, flushing.

"Not at all," said Dr. Gentian, "don't trouble your mind with
it further, I beg of you. The poor silly girl was frightened and
took you for a ghost— they're very superstitious. I assure you she
won't behave in such a foolish manner again." He tapped his
pomander and looked at Andrew.

"A hot, dogged wench— that Minorca piece," said Mr. Cave
with ugly abruptness, and Andrew decided then and there that
he definitely disliked Mr. Cave.

His behavior at supper that evening did not make Andrew like
him any better, though it did produce a certain tinge of con-
temptuous pity for him. The man fumbled absurdly with his
food, through the meal, in a dour silence, his reddened brow bent
on his plate, in spite of all the genial Doctor's attempts to draw
him out. Occasionally he would steal a queer, hostile glance at
Miss Gentian and address a few loutish words to her to be repaid
with an iced gentility. Andrew could not blame Miss Gentian
for her aloofness, but he felt sorry for Mr. Cave nevertheless. He
himself was in fine feather and described the hanging of Lieutenant
Governor Golden in effigy, during the Stamp Act riots, with the
devil whispering in his ear, and the unparalleled musical clock
but recently exhibited in Hull's assembly rooms, in a manner to
win the concerted smiles of both the Gentian ladies.

After supper they retired to the drawing room again, and
again Sparta Gentian's voice breathed gold through a crystal
instrument in the strains of "Beauty Retire." The occasion was
marred for Andrew only by the fact that Mr. Cave had obviously
taken too much wine in the interval before joining the ladies,
and now sat in a brooding, red-browed silence like a stupefied
bear, with his drooping-lidded eyes stupidly intent upon Sparta
Gentian's averted face. When the song was ended he got up
abruptly, almost overturning his chair, and without a word went

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Stephen Vincent Benet

over to the open window at the other end of the room and
remained standing there with his back to 'the company.

Andrew seemed to read a message in Dr. Gentian's face—he
rose too, and went over to the window himself. He stood for a
moment at Mr. Cave's side— the mian was staring out into darkness
and did not notice him. Then he laid his hand lightly on Mr.
Cave's arm to attract his attention, as he had seen Dr. Gentian
do that morning.

All Mr. Cave's stolid composure dropped from him on the
instant.

"Don't touch me!" he said in a fierce whisper, shaking off
Andrew's hand as if it stung him, "Don't touch me, I tell you!"

"But my dear sir—" said Andrew astounded. Then he paused,
for he had seen the man's eyes, and the watery madness in them.
For an instant Andrew felt on his body the impact of a blow that
was not given— a blow like a hammerstroke. Then the bloody
color died from Mr. Cave's eyes and his mouth ceased to quiver
like an angry child's.

"I— I am very sorry, Mr. Beard," he said, recovering himself
with visible effort, "the heat— and Miss Gentian's singing— I am
not very well with the heat and I— I cannot endure to have a
stranger touch me suddenly— don't think too hardly of me be-
cause of it, Mr. Beard—"

He was almost fawning now. Andrew did not know which
aspect of the man he found more distasteful— the sudden, lunatic
rage of a minute ago or this present and horrible obsequiousness.

"Pray think no more of it," said Andrew, haughtily, trying
to copy Dr. Gentian's tone, "Miss Gentian is about to sing again
—shall we hear her?" He led the way back into the room. But
he was relieved when, after Mr. Cave had taken his bearish de-
parture, Dr. Gentian explained the reason for his singular be-
havior.

"You have my thanks for treating Mr. Cave so courteously,"
he said gravely. "A strange, bitter creature, Cave— but loyal and
devoted, so we must put up with his strangeness." He lowered his
voice, "He comes of good enough stock— but you see it's by the
left hand— and that frets him, whenever he's in company."

"If he had his rights he'd be rich. Rich," said Sparta Gentian
suddenly in her thrilling voice.

"You were going to play us something of Handel's, my dear,"

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said her father, and the girl turned back to the forte-piano with
an impatient jerk of her head. Under cover of the music, Dr.
Gentian went on in snatches.

"I found him in London—what an exquisite passage, my pet-
very bitter against the world. Well, I'd known his father. A hard
man. I thought perhaps in a country where nobody knew the
story— but I fear the wound is too old and deep. One cannot
blame him too much. In his place, who would not be strange? Ah,
bravo, daughter!" and he clapped his hands.

Surely, thought Andrew, here was a gentleman of the most
comprehensive benevolence and understanding, and as he looked
at the beauty of Sparta Gentian's face, a little flushed now from
the exertion of playing, he resolved that- the morrow would find
him more than courteous to unlucky Mr. Cave.

The morrow came—and other morrows. A month slipped down
the curve of the year without Andrew's realizing how quickly it
had vanished— the indigo was in its third cutting— then in its
fourth. Soon it was time for hoarfrost to whiten the doorstep of
the house on Wall Street and autumn to gild and redden the trees
on the Boston road. Here it was hard to believe in snow feathering
from a leaden caldron of sky and the cries of skaters on the black
ice of Lispenard's Pond. The news from the North was scant
and disturbing, but its message, to Andrew, very tiny and far
away, a troubled voice hardly heard through heavy glass, the
faint disturbance of cannon and drums on a ship anchored be-
yond the horizon.

The tea-ships had been sent back from New York in orderly
protest— ships along the Northern seaboard hoisted their colors
at halfmast when the news of the closing of the port of Boston
came, and in Philadelphia, the bells of the churches were muf-
fled and tolled all day. In the city Andrew had left, the Com-
mittee of Fifty-One was organized and began to quarrel internally
at once. The call for the First Continental Congress went forth,
and from all the colonies but Georgia the delegates began to
assemble. Dust-powdered riders jogged along bad roads, north
and south, to Philadelphia— John Adams and the other delegates
from defiant Massachusetts were received along their way with

Stephen Vincent Benet

the state and circumstance of dukes ot convicted felons. The Con-
gress sat and deliberated— adopted a declaration of rights— resolved
to import no British merchandise after the first of December-
ended with a stately but ineffective petition to the king. John
Adams found the Philadelphia ladies charming but deplored the
general extravagance of the city— the Congress dissolved, to meet
again the following May, having made its gesture.

A cloud formed in the sky and grew— behind it a masked and
indifferent figure of chaos sharpened certain lightnings and saw
that his thunders were in voice. But cloud and figure were alike
unperceived by the plump, stupid king who still thought of his
obedient subjects of New York Colony, and by those subjects
who still stood ready to drink his health in broken glass on his
birthday and wish him better advised. Only Chatham in the in-
creasing weakness of his age saw a little— and a few men in
America who had helped push a stone to the edge of a steep slope,
perceived now where that bounding missile would strike in the
valley, and caught their breath. But Andrew was not one of
those few.

He was honestly concerned at the tone of his father's letters,
however. At first they were stiff and a little magniloquent, now
they grew hasty and brief, with odd gaps in them as if the writer
were too constantly fretted in mind to drive quill along paper
for long at a time. One strange, sparse missive had come from
Lucius— he had left the house on Wall Street and the business of
Alexander Beard and Son, and remained Andrew's affectionate
brother, with no address. Andrew had written him at once, asking
for the details of the estrangement, but had got no reply except
a bundle of the more violent manifestoes of the Sons of Liberty,
which he had read with a queer detachment. Lucius' name
dropped abruptly out of his father's letters and was not alluded
to again, while every letter was full of eager, almost querulous
queries as to the details of plantation-management. Andrew pic-
tured his father as a man at sword's-points with an invisible
enemy, forced back and back into a shadow. He took his cour-
age in both hands and wrote him formally for permission to come
home— sons did that, then. But the letter he got in answer was
even briefer and stranger than the rest, and adjured Andrew, by
every tie of filial duty, to remain where he was for a time. "My
dear Son— I implore you by all I hold most holy to remain yet a

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while in the Floridas— I have reasons for this request you know
not of, my Dear Son— and if you would be the Staff of my Age,
I conjure you to obey me in this—. Your Mother is not Well
and I am everywhere beset by difficulty—"

So it ran, in part, and Andrew, perplexed and sorry, could not
but obey. Besides, there were other reasons for his staying. He
had fallen deeply in love with Sparta Gentian and as deeply in
hate with the uncouth Mr. Cave.

The first complete passion of the heart may be written in
water for its permanency, but it leaves a cicatrice few care to
have the wind blow on, even when iron has grown over the scar.
Andrew had known women before, or their flesh, as a part of his
coming of age— a circumstance of as definite, physical importance
as the acquisition of a new watch by Green of London or the
ability to curse a servant adequately. But the fashionable bawdy-
house by the docks which he had visited a trifle shrinkingly in
Lucius' company, with its ton of syrup-voiced female meat
who rapped her trollops7 knuckles with an iron key-ring to make
them be civil to the young gentlemen, had as little to do with this
present fever as the stiff exchange of high compliment with suit-
ably marriageable daughters, minikin-mouthed, in green lutestring
gowns. This was burning and ague at once, an arrow in the
veins, a bitter gold in the mind.

He had realized it first some weeks ago, overseeing a gang of
Greeks sickle the tall indigo with shining, leisurely strokes while
the flies buzzed and the mown swathe gave out a scent of crushed
herb. An incongruous moment, but most high moments are in-
congruous. Something had passed before his eyes like the shadow
of a sea-gull in flight; then he knew; and the rest of the after-
noon he had let his Greeks soldier as they would, while he stared
at a visionary image through eyes that saw the field he stood in
and the men who worked in that field as meaningless silhouettes
cut out of colored paper.

Then he went back to the house and, after washing the smell of
the fields from his body with unusual thoroughness, descended
to supper and was tongue-tied and inept whenever he looked at
Sparta. But gradually the first sheer bedazzlement passed, and
he began to think and suffer.

He was so thoroughly acclimated to New Sparta by now that
at times it seemed as if he never had led any other life. He could

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Stephen Vincent Benet

test the indigo in the beating vats as expertly as Dr. Gentian
himself; and knew why no sun must fall upon it while it lies in
the drying-shed; and the differences between the light, pure
indigo called flotant or flora, the gorge-de-pigeon sort, and the
copper-colored, heavier stuff that is used for dyeing woolens and
the coarser fabrics. The smell of the rotting plant no longer re-
volted him, he had become inured to it, and ii not inured, accus-
tomed at least to the mosquitoes and flies in the fields.

He had long ago acquired his body-servant— a slim, silent, olive
Minorcan lad with melancholy eyes. Also, he had begun to take a
considerable interest in many of the other men and see the colony
much more clearly as a whole. Some things he saw made him
wince— but it was a hard-handed age, and he gradually fell into
the way men have of overlooking little uncomfortable incidents
that would have given him pause six months before. Whatever
happened, Dr. Gentian was never to blame. The Doctor could
not be everywhere, and if, occasionally he seemed to overlook
occurrences that made Andrew hot behind the eyes, the abun-
dant, evident prosperity of the settlement was ample testimony
for the general wisdom and justice of his policy. Besides, and
always now, he was Sparta's father.

Mr. Cave, though, was a brute and an unpleasant one. In
regard to him, Andrew could not but feel that Dr. Gentian
carried a point of generosity too far. The friction between him-
self and Mr. Cave had begun the very morning after the scene
between them at the window. Mr. Cave was giving him his first
lesson in the ways of the plantation, and Andrew had certainly
intended all scrupulous courtesy towards him. But after an hour
or so of contemptuous, ursine explanations on Mr. Cave's part and
eager questions on Andrew's, Mr. Cave stopped suddenly as they
were crossing a field together.

"What did he tell you about me, last night, after I was gone,
hey?" he said hoarsely, jerking his thumb in the general direction
of the great house.

Andrew felt trapped. "I do not recall that we discussed any
one of your qualities in particular," he said finally. The man
galled him, but he was resolved to be civil.

"Qualities!" said Mr. Cave, scornfully. "Qualities, hell. He told
you I was a bastard—didn't he now? A London lawyer's bastard

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without even a decent name to his back?" His voice was vinegary.
He looked Andrew up and down with red, peering eyes.

"I assure you Mr. Cave," said Andrew, still grasping at civility,
"that even if Dr. Gentian did happen to refer to the— the unhappy
circumstances of your birth—"

"Listen to me!" said Mr. Cave with sudden violence, "You
can't talk fine to me— I don't want any of your stinking New
York sop! Fm a bastard, all right— I knew he'd tell you— well,
if I am—" he beat his fist in his palm, "I don't want any damn
cocked-hat pity from you or him neither— savvy? I take care of
myself— savvy? I could stake the two of you out in the sun to
dry there for boucan— savvy? All right— now you go and snigger
about me with him over your wine as much as you damn well
want to!"

The hoarse, brief explosion of his rage left Andrew stunned for
an instant. He felt as if he had stretched out his hand in the dark
and put it upon a toad.

"Oh— go to the devil!" he said, rather impotently, and started
to walk away in a fog of anger. But already the man's fit had
passed and he was running after him with apologies.

"Mr. Beard! Mr. Beard! I didn't mean anything, sir— I swear
I didn't! I get a fit like that every now and then— Dr. Gentian
knows it— he never pays any attention to it. You aren't going
to tell nim, Mr. Beard? You aren't going to—"

The tawdry tears were actually running down his cheeks. It
took some time for Andrew, loathing them both, to quiet him
with promises and assurances. Then the man relapsed into his
usual heavy sullenness and the tour of instruction proceeded. But
even the crowded months since then had not been able to ob-
literate the shoddy scene from Andrew's memory.

Then there was the time, a month or so later, when Mr. Cave
had been about to take the whip to the Minorcan. The Minorcan
was the fine-looking fellow whom Andrew had noticed on his
first day at New Sparta, and Andrew had stopped the projected
whipping in short order, for he was used to his work by then, and
conscious of Dr. Gentian's favor. But again, he would not easily
forget the Minorcan's clenched face as Mr. Cave had whistled
the rawhide lash in his hands in preparation to strike, nor Mr.
Cave's dull fury when Andrew had intervened.

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Stephen Vincent Benet

That matter had gone up to Dr. Gentian and Mr. Cave had
been cautioned, though, as Dr. Gentian explained, there were
times when the whip— "A new colony must live its first decade
under what, to all purposes, is martial law, Mr. Beard, if it is to
survive. Take away the punitive power— even the power of life
and death—from its governors and— well, you've heard of the
first days at Jamestown—"

Andrew agreed. Dr. Gentian, as usual, had reason and experi-
ence on his side. But he thought Mr. Cave should be discharged
and said so.

"Some time, perhaps— if I could find him another post," mused
Dr. Gentian, gravely. "But just now— well— we are short of men,
Mr. Beard, and after all, if I did discharge him, where would the
wretched fellow go? I could not turn him out naked to pig it
with the Indians."

Andrew saw the justice of that, and the air cleared again. At
least, he thought, the incident had been of some value, for it
won him the friendship of the Minorcan concerned and he began
to be popular among the palmetto-huts.

The Minorcan's name was Sebastian Zafortezas, and Andrew
discovered, with that curious pleasure the mind takes in tiny
coincidences, that they had been born in the same year. He began
to visit Sebastian's hut, now and then— it was on the edge of the
Minorcan quarter and cleaner and better kept than those of his
Greek neighbors. As the acquaintanceship grew, Sebastian began
to teach him Mahonese Spanish— hesitatingly at first, for he had
only a little English to begin on. But soon they were really able
to talk to each other— and Andrew began to learn about the de-
serted hut near the Altar of the Gentiles and the long sick voyage
from Port Mahon.

Gradually, Andrew slipped into the way of frequenting Sebas-
tian's hut as often as circumstance allowed. Conversation with
Dr. Gentian was always instructive— but he found that at times
he missed the fellowship of men near his own age more than he
had thought— and Mr. Cave was the only other possibility.
Colonial and Mahonese exchanged knives and minor confidences
and began to feel secure in each other's company. Andrew dis-
covered that Sebastian was passionately fond of tobacco and re-
paid his language lessons with pipefuls of rank Virginia, while

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the two chatted and the blue smoke wavered in the evening air,
and the Barbary ape that Sebastian was so proud of bringing alive
from Minorca chattered to itself in a corner. Andrew thought a
dozen times of transferring Sebastian from the fields to the
coquina house, as his body servant, but something held him back
—he suspected his friend of a pride of race as great as any De
Lancey's and feared to wound him.

They were seated so, one afternoon in early March when work
was over, smoking in comparative silence, for both were tired.
Andrew was thinking that it was nearly a year since he had
sailed from New York, that he had had no news from home for
almost two months now, and that the little hollow at the base
of Sparta Gentian's throat was the most lovely of all created
things.

He had long ago confided his passion to Sebastian and had
received a grave, laconic sympathy in return. Sometimes he won-
dered at himself for revealing the most hidden trouble of his
heart so easily to a foreign laborer— but that ghost of snobbery
was quickly laid. His friend understood him, that was enough.
But he wondered sometimes, if he understood his friend.

The other had told him many things— he could see the barren
island of ringdoves and eagles rise before him out of the sea, in
Sebastian's words, like a city long-drowned—he could hear the
soft slur of the dancers' feet in the rocky streets of Mahon— but
the secret springs of Sebastian's mind remained unrevealed. Oc-
casionally, in a chance word or a casual idiom, he could catch a
glimpse of some alien, resolved purpose, hidden under the surface
of Sebastian's talk like the gleam of a fish, seen far down, in very
deep water, but that was all. Still, Andrew decided, he did not
like Sebastian any the less for it. He shook out the dottel from
his pipe, stretched his arms, and spoke.

"She is beautiful as a golden rose," he said in Spanish. "Beauti-
ful. Is she not beautiful, my friend?"

Sebastian nodded gravely. "All women are beautiful, but only
one to a lover," he said, reflectively. "It is well, so. When do you
speak to her father, amigo?"

"Soon," said Andrew. "As soon as I have any notion there is
hope for me in her mind."

"You must serenade her more often," said Sebastian smiling.

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Stephen Vincent Benet

"No." Andrew smiled, too. "I have told you we have not the
custom of the serenade."

"That is bad," said Sebastian seriously. "Guitar-music comes
like a child to a woman's heart—it can enter where a man must
Stay out in the darkness. I would get you a guitar, my friend, if
you had need of it. Tonight is a night for love and the guitar."

"That is true," said Andrew, nodding. "But you, Sebastian-
how do you know? Have you never been in love?"

Sebastian regarded the bowl of his pipe.

"Yes. I have been in love," he said.

"But I've never seen you with a girl."

"No," said Sebastian. "You have never seen me with a girl."
His face was masked.

"And yet—what happened, Sebastian?— Are you still, per-
haps—"

"It is possible," said Sebastian, smiling. "Let us talk no more
of it, my friend. Let us talk of your love instead— and wish you
good fortune."

Andrew felt rebuffed, but he respected the other's reticence.
Besides, it was so very much more interesting to pour his own
doubts and fears in Sebastian's sympathetic ear.

"Perhaps, I will find my rose tonight," he said, tossing a pebble
idly in his hand, "perhaps."

"May you wear it many years," said Sebastian with courteous
dignity.

"Dr. Gentian sets out for St. Augustine soon," went on
Andrew, thinking aloud. "He will be gone some time. If I do
not speak before then—"

"Ah," said Sebastian and muttered something to himself in
Spanish.

"Que?" said Andrew, eagerly. He had not caught the words.

"I said nothing," said Sebastian, holding out his hand before the
door of his hut to try the direction of the wind. "The air is
heavy. We will have rain before morning. Rain and thunder."

"Nonsense, Sebastian," said Andrew and laughed. "The sky's
as clear as a bell and it rained only two days ago."

''Perhaps," said Sebastian, staring into a distance. His eyes were
veiled. "But for all that, we will have rain soon enough, and
thunder. There is thunder in the air, my friend— thunder coming,
up from the sea."

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PART TWO:

THE DAZZLING NET

The strangeness of his friend's last speech bothered Andrew
a little, on his way back to the house, but not long. The gradual
veils ' of dusk blue, patched with silver, that evening drew
solemnly across the sky were too calm and gentle to be flowered
with anything more sullen than the palest stripes of Spring rain
—a cool air blew from the inlet like a promise given in a whisper
—it was, indeed, a night for love and the guitar. Andrew came
up thq grassy avenue that led to the house with that promise
clutched tight in his hand like a Spanish coin.

Tonight, he told himself as he had told himself so often, he
would find out the color of his fortune, black or gold. In the inter-
val after supper, when the Gentian ladies had withdrawn, he
would speak to his surgeon Caesar, and know his fate there, at
least. Admitted, the Doctor was too liberal and modern a father to
give away his daughter against her will— etiquette was etiquette
—and it must never be said in the Floridas that a New Yorker
lacked proper punctilio. But even if the Doctor did approve—
what or Sparta herself? Andrew sifted a thousand little incidents
of the past few months between his fingers like grains of sparkling
sand. Here she had certainly smiled, yes— and there thanked him
most graciously for turning over the leaves of her new song. But
there she had been distant as a ghost, and there again, definitely
satiric. This balanced that, and left him in troubled confusion. He
was so absorbed in love-stricken calculations that he nearly ran
into one of the servants, on the stairs, before he realized where
he was.

"Ten thousand dev— ," he began, in irritation, then, seeing it
was Sparta's Minorcan maid, changed his tune abruptly. If this
girl were not divinity itself, she was blessed at least by the serv-
ice of divinity, and he stared at her hungrily, as if he expected
to see a golden collar, with godhead's name upon it, around her
throat. He had noticed the wench very little after that first awk-
ward encounter in the corridor— she went about her duties as
unobtrusively as a spirit— but tonight she seemed to him, some-
how, a precious object, and he spoke to her on impulse.

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Stephen Vincent Benet

"Is anything wrong?" he said, for now that he came to observe
her, she seemed more sombre than usual and her face was a trifle
drawn.

"Nothing, senor" said the girl quietly. "Supper will be ready
in half an hour." She stood aside for him to pass. He lingered,
feeling, in the folly of a lover, that her presence might have some
sort of augury for him, if he could only puzzle it out.

"But— there is something the matter, Caterina," he went on,
with vague Iqndliness. "You really look very tired— and the fever-
season's coming on. You should go to Dr. Gentian and have him
give you a powder of cinchona."

"No, gracias, I am quite well, seiior" said the girl, and sucked
in her breath. A dark glow came into her eyes for a second, like
the soul of a flame in an obscured mirror, and died again. For
some reason, Andrew felt, momentarily, as he had that evening
in the corridor when her footsteps had died away so suddenly
and left him alone in the very belly of night. The sensation was
so acute that he almost put out a hand to steady himself against
an assault of shadows. Then he remembered.

"Of course," he said rather aimlessly, "of course— but still, you
don't look very well, Caterina,— and really, now, if you went
to-"

"I am quite well," the girl repeated steadily, but he saw a sob
rise in her throat. It broke now, and tore her. "But the Minorcans
will never have their lands, now— the Minorcans will never have
their lands!" she cried, passionately, in a deep, shaken voice, and
then pushing him aside with a child's gesture of impotent pain,
ran sobbing down the stairs. Andrew gazed after her helplessly,
reflecting that Minorcans were very peculiar. One got just so
far with them— and then one came up against a blind wall of
silence or an inexplicable grief. Her words were meaningless, of
course, but coming, as they did, after Sebastian's talk about the
thunder, they jarred him and set the pattern of the evening awry.
He went to his room with a prickle in his mind, and was not
pleased, when he got there, to hear, through the open window,
the mutter of other voices in irritated discussion.

He was about to go out and silence the debate— the room next
his was a store-room and generally only frequented by servants
—when the voices rose higher, and he caught one sentence clearly.

"You've been at that wench, again," said a dry, passionless

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accent which Andrew was horrified to recognize as Mrs. Gen-
tian's. "I'll not suffer it, Hilary. I'll not suffer it any more."

A low rasping murmur replied. The other voice fell to meet
it, and Andrew found himself gripping the back of a chair with
a clenched hand. Mrs. Gentian was so taciturn at the best of
times that he had come to think of her as a statue rather than a
woman— a statue whose worn, fine hands busied themselves
interminably with flowers of lace and needlework, but whose
memorial mouth was as dedicated to silence as the mouth of a
buried nun. Now, though, those lips had opened, and a voice,
arid and clear as the rattle of dry palm-branches in the wind,
spoke out a hate so weary and long enduring that it hurt the
mind.

Andrew closed the window as quickly as he could but he could
not shut out the sour, tearless repetition of the words, "I will
not suffer it, Hilary. I will not suffer it again," or the hard rasp
of the Doctor's voice in reply. He felt very sorry for Dr. Gen-
tian—Mrs. Gentian had the wreck of what must have been a great
beauty. The beauty had gone, but its jealousy, apparently, re-
mained—acrid as the dregs of spoilt incense. Andrew had heard,
in books, of the lengths to which such ingrown jealousy may
lead very worthy women, and shook his head in wise acknowl-
edgment of the strangeness of existence. It was worse, somehow,
that Sparta's mother should yield to such a failing. He could not
restrain a natural pity for the unhappy lady, but he felt that
in combining Sparta's mother with a jealous wife, she had com-
mitted, at the least, a serious breach or taste.

He was relieved to find no traces of the quarrel lingering in
the air when he came down to the supper-table. Dr. Gentian was
pleasanter than usual, if anything, and Mrs. Gentian very com-
posed. He marvelled anew at the deceptiveness of all women
but Sparta— he could hardly believe that the cool, terse accents
which asked him politely for his verdict on the salad of hearts
of cabbage-palm, belonged to the same woman whose voice had
been so sere with an exhausted flame a little while ago. Then he
was left alone with Dr. Gentian, and it was time for him to put
his question. Only now, when the time had come, in spite of
any fortification of wine, the question stuck in his throat.

"Shall we take our wine into my study?" said Dr. Gentian and
rose. "There is a new herbal I should like to show you— the author

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Stephen Vincent Benet

has some ingenious ideas upon the domestication of the mulberry-
tree in these parts."

Andrew assented gratefully, grasping at the moment's relief.
Besides he took it as a good omen that on this night of all nights,
Dr. Gentian should invite him to the seldom-visited chamber
which he had always visualized as the hidden brain of the planta-
tion.

He took in its details now with care, as if some one of them
might give him a clue to his future. The fantastic yet eifective
diversity of its master's character was displayed in the chamber
almost to excess. It was a long, oval, high-ceiled room, hung in
blue and gold leather—the domed ceiling was blue, as well, and
powdered with small gold stars. There were books and chemical
apparatus, a set of chessmen whose kings rode ivory elephants, a
foreign dagger with beryls set in the blade. An herbarium stood
in a corner beside the articulated skeleton of a child— a violin
lay on a carved wooden chest, neighbored by a case of surgical
instruments, a pair of dividers and an azimuth. Yet in spite of this
litter of incompatible objects and interests, the room gave an im-
pression of neatness and order as precise as that of a captain's
cabin on a shipshape frigate. Andrew felt that Dr. Gentian could
go blindfold to any single thing in the room and put his hand
upon it— and also, that the room was, in a measure, an extension
of the soul of its master, and should he die, would be haunted
forever by a light, sure footstep and a tight, Roman smile. He
turned over the leaves of the herbal— the plates made a blur of
color in his eyes and Dr. Gentian was saying something about
mulberries that he should listen to, but his mind was racked, and
he could not attend.

"I intended the ceiling as a planetary map, showing roughly
the movements of the various heavenly bodies and the transit of
the moon," said his host, politely, as Andrew's eyes strayed frorr
the herbal to the ceiling, "but the work was never completed/
He sighed. "Perhaps some day, we can manage it."

"It is a splendid chamber, sir," said Andrew, thinking of Sparta.

"It is my retreat," Dr. Gentian confided. "You may not have
noticed— but there is deadening in the walls, and when I am
secluded here, there are orders I shall not be disturbed. I even
have my own staircase to the upper part of the house."

"Really?" said Andrew, marshalling the facts of his birth and

Spanish Bayonet

worldly circumstances in proper order to present to a father,

"Yes, indeed/' said Dr. Gentian. He rose and opened a door
at the side— a door flush with the wall. "Would you like to see
it— the workmanship is truly ingenious."

He led the way up a short, winding stair, chatting. At a land-
ing, he paused. "We are behind the ceiling now," he said. He
slid a little panel back with an oily click. "When I planned my
planetary map, I thought to place my moon here and light it
with a concealed lamp— a childish fancy enough, but what's life
without vagaries? Then I thought my toy might burn the roof
down over my head some fine night and gave up the plan. As it
is, my moon makes an excellent Judas-hole if I had need of one."
He stepped aside. Andrew came forward and peered through a
small round opening directly down into the room which they had
just left. He muttered something about an interesting device.

"Only a toy," said Dr. Gentian, "and a costly one. 1 fear I
am too fond of toys." He shut the panel with a smooth sound,
and waved into the gloom. "The stair there leads direct to the
main corridor— I find it convenient, but I will not make you
climb any further beyond the moon." He chuckled and led the
way down again. "I have always hankered after oddities— 'tis my
greatest defect. I never realize how I may fatigue others with my
hobbies— as I fear I have fatigued you, this evening, Mr. Beard, by
your face—"

"Not at all, sir," said Andrew, untruthfully, seated in his chair
again. He cleared his throat desperately. "Dr. Gentian—" he said.

"Yes, Mr. Beard?— the bottle lies with you, I think— thank you."
The little gurgle of the Doctor's wine into his glass put Andrew
off unaccountably. For a moment he thoroughly wished himself
heartwhole and a thousand miles away. But he set his teeth and
brought up an image of Spaita to aid him.

"Dr. Gentian—" he began again, with an unfortunate sense
of repetition.

"Pardon me," interrupted the smiling Doctor politely, "but
your glass is already full. You may not have observed it." And
Andrew discovered to his horror that he was spilling a red stream
on the table from an overflowing glass.

"Sorry, I'm sure," he mumbled.

"It is nothing," the Doctor assured him. "But I chance to have
a peculiar affection for certain years of Madeira. Pray continue,

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Stephen Vincent Benet

Mr. Beard—you will find it a trifle difficult to rest the bottle on a
walnut— I mention it, merely— pray continue—"

Andrew silently placed the bottle as far from him as possible
and wetted his lips.

"Dr. Gentian/' he said for the third time, "I crave— I wish-
May I humbly crave, sir, your permission to—"

uYou may certainly have my most willing permission to pay
your addresses to my daughter, Sparta," said the Doctor, briskly
snipping Andrew's disjoined stammerings in two. Then, seeing
Andrew's stupefied face, he threw back his head and burst into
a shout of laughter.

"Why, you silly boy," he said, laughing and wiping the tears
of laughter from his eyes, "d'you suppose I haven't seen where
your heart's been drifting this last half-year? But the blindest
worm in the ground's a crystal-gazer to a young man in love.
Here, lad—" and he gave his hand to Andrew across the table.
"Shake hands and don't look so solemn. You can have her if
you can win her. I can say no more than that, for I won't force
her— but that I'll say with a good conscience."

"I can never thank you enough, sir," said Andrew, solemnly,
shaking hands.

"Well then— don't thank me at all— that's far the best course
for both of us," said the Doctor, cheerfully. "I'll say this, too—
the girl has no other attachment I know of, and I'll be glad to
give her to you, should she be agreeable. But a word on other
matters." He grew serious now. "I am not a young man, Mr.
Beard, and somewhat loath to part with my one chick for the
few years left me. So I must ask you this— should you marry my
daughter, sir, would you intend to remain in the Floridas or re-
turn to New York?"

Andrew felt himself unable to think of such petty matters.

"I have grown much attached to the Floridas," he said smiling.
"So much that I should not think of quitting them, if—"

"Good," said the Doctor. "Then we're agreed. I confess— I'd
feel a wrench were it to be otherwise. Well, sir— I think that is
all I wished to say. The settlements— of course I speak merely in
the eventuality, Mr. Beard— had best be discussed between your
father and myself— I might even make the voyage North in case
—though in these uneasy times—"

"My father is much interested in the Floridas," Andrew blurted

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out. "It is even possible my father might remove some of his
interests here—" He half-regretted the words once they were
spoken, but Dr. Gentian had behaved with such admirable candor
that it surely behooved him to do likewise.

"Indeed?" said the Doctor quietly. "That is very interesting."
He reflected. "Your father is a wise man," he said. "No one
knows what this stir in the North may lead to— but the Floridas
will stand by the Crown. And should your father— well, well,"
he broke oft. "There'll be time enough to talk of that later. At
present, no doubt you're already busy with a sonnet to my
daughter's eyebrow and aching for the sight of her. Ah, youth—
what a heat in the mind it is, and how we cool when it's over.
By the way," he went on more practically, "as you know, I must
visit St. Augustine in a month or so, and be gone some time. If
this matter we have discussed might be settled before I leave—"

"But sir— I— I— Miss Gentian—" said Andrew, his mind topsy-
turvy.

Dr. Gentian laid a paternal hand on his shoulder.

"There, lad— I don't mean to press you— or you her— but take
my word for it, the swiftest love is often the surest and lastingest
—and your bold, rapid lover is wedded and bedded and got his
child on the maid while Sir Timothy Shilly-Shally is still sighing
outside her door."

Andrew felt this last advice a trifle frank in tone— but it was
an unsqueamish age, and he could hardly quibble with so amiable
a prospective father-in-law over niceties of language. He went
out of the study, with the other's hand on his shoulder and a
bronze call, like the call of a centaur's hunting-horn, in his heart.

2.

He was alone with Sparta in the garden, and his hour was upon
him. The opportunity had come so swiftly and easily that he felt
bewildered. A word from Dr. Gentian as to the beauty of that
strange plant, the cereus, which blooms only at night. A sigh
from Sparta that the house was close and she would risk any
treachery of the night air for a breath of cool from the river.
She had put a light shawl about her shoulders, impatiently, at her
mother's insistence. In the white shine of the stars its vivid
flowers were darkened and strange, it wrapped her shoulders in

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a pale fleece, marked obscurely with the imprint of blossoms
sprung from fields on the dark side of the moon. Andrew had
never seen her more beautiful or less attainable. Her composed
face seemed to have no room for thoughts of him or any other
man, her eyes were lighted at an indifferent planet, her mouth
was a shut flower.

They had seen the cereus and marvelled— the night-flower that
blooms when heaven is dark and dies in the sun, showing only
the secret hours of the risen planets the perfection of its white-
ness, cool, sterile and lovely as a blossom congealed from some
metal slighter than foam. They had talked of a dozen, indifferent
things as they strolled about. Andrew had long ago discovered
that Sparta was very curious of New York and of cities in gen-
eral. Her childish years were a confused memory of long sea-
voyages and strange nurses. The one glimpse of London, seen
when she was eleven and her roving father had been interesting
Lord Hillsborough in his projects, was hugged like the ghost of
a jewel to her breast. She remcmbe'red Vauxhall passionately—
and the very sprigs on the dresses of the fine ladies in panniered
silk who came there in sedan-chairs with a train of tame wits and
sniffing lapdogs.

"Sometimes, I confess, Mr. Beard— I must have a foolish heart
— I'd rather be an orange girl in the meanest London playhouse
than an empress in these exiled Floridas. But then I remember,
when I was a child my sole ambition was to be a midshipman
on one of His Majesty's frigates so I could carry a dirk and kill
Frenchmen— and I calm myself."

Andrew longed to tell her, that he would give her London, a
chicken-skin fan, and a lapdog with the arrogant nose of a Chinese
god— but his promise to Dr. Gentian held him back. At least, he
thought, she should be an empress in the Floridas, if he could
make her one. He glanced up the sky— the change Sebastian had
predicted was beginning. Clouds hurried across the stars like
trotting black sheep— a rampart of darkness built itself up steadily
in the glittering wake of the moon. He chose a particular cloud.
When it blotted the moon he would speak.

"Mr. Beard— Mr. Beard— is my company so wearisome? You
have not honored me with a word these five minutes past.'7 Her
shoe tapped on the path. Her face was amused. He stared at her

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in silence, waiting for his omen. It came at last. The cloud blotted
the moon and darkness fell on them both.

"Miss Gentian— Sparta—'1 he said with a crack in his throat.
Then all his elaborate prologue of speech forgotten, he put shak-
ing hands on her shoulders and drew her to him.

"Sparta? You'll marry me?" he said, in that same, cracked,
violent voice. She was very near, now. He could see her eyes in
the darkness, the gray had gone out of them, they were black as
opals, and in each was a tiny gleaming image of his face. She
looked at him steadily, for an instant, without replying. Then,
"Yes, I'll marry you," she said, the crystal bell of her voice un-
troubled by doubt or surprise. Then his arms went round her and
she kissed him full on the mouth, and he felt his heart stop in
his body for that instant of felicity as if the pointed blade of the
Spanish bayonet had run him through and through with a golden
thorn.

Through the further events of the evening, Andrew moved
like a man in trance. There were Sparta's kisses in the garden,
which were real, though incredible, and there was the formal
reception of their betrothal by Dr. and Mrs. Gentian, which,
while equally real no doubt, seemed in memory, vague as a
painting upon a dream. He could hear the words on Sparta's lips
clearly enough, "Mr. Beard has asked for me in marriage, Father,
and I have accepted him, subject to your consent," but of the
practical conversation which followed he had little recollection.
Dr. Gentian had drunk his health and called him son— he had
drunk Dr. Gentian's health— Mrs. Gentian had been terse but
agreeable— he was going to marry Sparta— that remained, unbe-
lievable though it might be, the one steadfast fact in a rocking
world. He tried to recall what Mrs. Gentian had said to him—
her congratulations had certainly not erred on the side of
loquacity.

He was sure she had said no more than, "So you are to marry
our daughter, Mr. Beard? I wish you much joy," while she
looked at him curiously. But then he had taken her hand to kiss
it in acknowledgment and had been surprised to find it trem-
bling. Obviously a lady of deep, if hidden, feeling— and certainly
Dr. Gentian's cheery talkativeness more than made up for any
curtness of hers.

Stephen Vincent Benet

He must tell Sebastian, in the morning. He had forgotten all
about Sebastian till now, he realized with a start. No— not quite
forgotten. He had paused an instant as Sparta and he were about
to reenter the house, and glancing about idly, had seen two in-
distinct shapes, a woman's and a man's, part from each other in
the shadows of the outbuildings. He suspected them of being
lovers, and had felt friendship for them because he was now happy
in love. Now he suspected more— that one shape had been Sebas-
tian's and the other that of Caterina, the Minorcan rnaid. The
thought pleased him extraordinarily— he was in that benevolent
state when we are generous enough to wish all our friends a
bliss only slightly less than our own. He gave Sebastian a suitable
wedding, engaged him as chief-overseer on his new plantation
and stood godfather to his first child, before he fell asleep to
the rushing of light, fierce rain on the roof above his head.

About the time that Andrew and his divinity were first observ-
ing the mystery of the cereus, the monkey in Sebastian's hut
gave over its attempts to capture a peculiarly elusive flea and
began to consider other means of diversion. Its master was away
—fleas ceased to interest after a certain time— life in general was
a sucked cocoanut and obedience a rusty chain about the body
that kept one from all sorts of pleasantly destructive occupations.
If the chain could only be got rid of somehow— but there the
monkey had never had the slightest success before and hoped for
little now. Still, it was worth trying, and the monkey bit at it a
couple of times for luck and then squatted down sailorwise and
tugged at it till it rattled, delightfully.

To his surprise, it seemed to give a little— Sebastian had ham-
mered the staple in a new place that morning without noticing
the rottenness of the wood. The monkey, encouraged, tried again
and again, with less result, and was about to give it up and go
to sleep, when one last jerk pulled the staple loose and set him
free. He bounded instantly upon Sebastian's bed and sat there
chattering triumphantly. There were so many breakable objects
within easy reach that he did not know quite where to begin.
He started by hammering Sebastian's red clay pipe against a
stone. It smashed very satisfactorily in a moment or two and

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he amused himself for some time by carefully distributing the
bits inside Sebastian's blankets. Then that too palled and he scut-
tled over to the door, his chain jingling behind him. The night
seemed very large and interesting. There were trees in it. He
had not climbed a tree in a long time.

He remedied the lack immediately, but the tree he chose wasn't
much of a tree at that— it had no fruit on it to suck and throw
away, with a squash, at other men or monkeys. Still, it was good
to be independent again, at last. He said so at length, to the sur-
rounding world, and set out upon his travels.

The joys of independence lasted till the first large drops of rain
began to soak into his fur. Then they grew a trifle dubious. After
all, he had become used to living in a house with a roof on it, and
the society of mankind, while often tedious, had its compensa-
tions. He had had an adventurous outing and smelled and bitten
at all sorts of new and interesting substances. He had proven
himself a monkey of ingenuity and initiative. Now, the hut on
the edge of the Minorcan quarter seemed snug and warm, and
die food he shared with Sebastian more filling, on the whole, than
what one could forage for oneself. He would go back— but he
had come a considerable distance in his careless rambling and was
not quite sure of his bearings.

He looked around him— ah, there was a house with a light in
the window. That meant man and warmth and shelter. A dif-
ferent master, perhaps— but he had been so long with Sebastian
that he had quite forgotten his first unpleasant experiences with
masters.

He slipped down to the ground and jangled over toward the
lighted house, shivering as he ran. It was really raining now, and
he hated rain like a cat.

Mr. Cave, alone in colloquy with a half-emptied bottle of
spirits, heard a sudden ghostly clanking through the dripping
pour of the rain, and looking up, saw the Devil in person stand-
ing in his doorway with a chain wrapped around his middle. He
rubbed horrified eyes and began to pray in a whisper. Then his
mind righted itself and he sank back in his chair, muttering. It
was only that impudent Minorcan's draggled pet-ape—but it had
given him a start, and he did not like being startled when he was
in liquor.

Stephen Vincent Benet

The wet monkey had jumped on the table now and sat op-
posite him, grinning and looking at the bottle of spirits. He
grinned back at it. It would be funny to give the miserable
little beast some liquor and get it drunk. You could get a chicken
drunk on corn soaked in brandy but a drunken monkey would
be even more amusing.

"Here," he said, splashed some liquor into a glass and held it
out to the monkey. If the monkey behaved itself and proved en-
tertaining when intoxicated, he might even keep it. The Minorcan
fellow set a good deal of store by it and laborers had no business
keeping pets.

The monkey took the glass trustingly— Sebastian had taught it
how to drink from a glass, in the useless way men had. Now it
swallowed a gulp of what was inside the glass. The raw liquor
stung its throat— it coughed and spat in quaint loathing. Mr. Cave
roared—this was even more diverting than he had expected. Then
he felt the monkey's sharp teeth almost meet in his thumb, gave
a squeal of pain, and struck at it blindly with the bottle.

Even so, the monkey might have escaped, if it had not been
for its chain. But the chain tangled its feet as it dodged away—
and Mr. Cave's second blow was better aimed than his first.

He stood looking at the dead animal, stupidly. It bled like a
man. He hadn't really meant to kill it. But he had— and that
Minorcan who owned it was a sullen devil. Well, he'd just have
to face it out, if the ugly little swine tried any tricks on him.

He took the limp body of the monkey gingerly by one leg
and threw it out of the door. It was raining hard, now— the rain
would wash some of the blood off, he thought, inanely. He
shivered. Killing an animal wasn't much, but he wished its hands
hadn't looked like a dead baby's when he picked it up. He shut
the door carefully, bolted it, and returned to his bottle. Now
and then he cast an uneasy glance at the window. If the damn
little brute hadn't bitten— it should have known he had a quick
temper and wouldn't stand biting— His thoughts trailed off un-
easily, into a mist the color of liquor.

Sebastian got back to his hut just before the rain broke, and,
finding the monkey vanished, started to search for it at once.
At first he did not imagine that it could have gone very far and
stood in the doorway, calling, "Amigo! Amigo!" in a crooning

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voice, for some time. But when no chattering answered from the
darkness, he became disturbed and started out to visit the huts
nearest him. Even the Greeks answered pleasantly enough— the
monkey was quite a favorite in the colony— but none had any
news. A Minorcan woman said that she had been awakened by
the rattling of a chain outside her window, but that was all.

The rain soaked Sebastian to the skin, as he proceeded on his
quest, but he did not notice it. He grew increasingly distraught
and cursed himself for not having seen that the monkey was
securely chained, before he left the hut. "Amigo! Amigo!" he
called again and again, with a dry throat, and promised his name-
saint a candle for every arrow that had stuck in his flesh. But
there was no answer from either saint or monkey.

He did not know what impulse drove him at last to Mr. Cave's
cottage, save that he hated the man and knew the man hated him.
It was there, however, in the dripping weeds near the house of his
enemy, that he stumbled at last upon the body of his friend. He
took it up silently, the head was still bloody in spite of the rain,
and the wrinkled face stiff and sad. Then, still in silence, with the
dead animal in his arms, he made the complete circuit of the cot-
tage, trying every door and window, noiselessly. But the doors
and windows were fastened and the house was dark.

He sat down upon the ground then, still holding the monkey,
and burst into a fit of dry sobbing, while the rain beat on him.
Then he returned to his hut.

When he got back, he lit two scraps of candle and placed the
monkey's body between them. Then he stripped himself to the
waist, and, going to the wooden chest that held his few posses-
sions, took out of it a small brass medal, tarnished green by the
damp. On it was the image of the Mother of God. Her face was
quiet— she had seven swords in her heart. This, together with the
knife that Andrew had given him, he also put on the table be-
tween the candles. He then knelt and began to pray in Mahonese.
The form of prayer was one peculiar to the men of the islands
and unacknowledged by Rome. Andrew would have thought
him even too alien, if he had seen him then— the muscles of his
stripped body trembled with the vehemence of his supplication
—he was dedicating Andrew's knife to Our Lady of Vengeance.
After a time had passed, he rose again, put on his soaked shirt, and
went stiffly out to dig the childish grave.

Stephen Vincent Benet

Next morning, in spite of Andrew's resolve, the two friends
did not meet. Instead, Sparta had a wish to go riding through the
new-washed and freshly-scented countryside, and when they re-
turned, Dr. Gentian, a cloud on his brow, was dismissing a deputa-
tion of the elder Minorcans from his study. He turned to
Andrew sharply, the moment he saw him.

"Was your ride a pleasant one, lad?" he said, abstractedly.
"Come with me a moment— there is something I would have your
advice on."

"Certainly, sir," said Andrew, pleased at being consulted. He
turned to Sparta. "You'll excuse me, mistress?" he said lightly.

"I shall excuse you sir," said Sparta smiling, her fingers playing
with the lash of her riding-whip.

Dr. Gentian shut the door of his study. "The Minorcans are
making trouble," he said without preface. "I thought it best you
should know."

"Making trouble?" said Andrew, jarred. He somehow felt that
trouble at this time was an insult to his happiness and Sparta's.

"Yes," said Dr. Gentian. He hesitated. " Tis a long story. The
gist of it's this. They say they've served their time for their lands,
under our agreement. Now they want them."

Andrew's mind reverted to his encounter with Caterina on that
yesterday that seemed so distant. "The Minorcans will never have
their lands now," she had said.

"Well, sir—" he began judicially.

Dr. Gentian cut him off. "Yes— that was the agreement," he
admitted. "Three years. But there's the religious difficulty.
They're Catholics, every man jack of them— Roman Catholics.
Now listen to me," he tapped his thumb on the table. "When 1
first took them on my ships— would they have made conditions
then? No. They were starving. I took them because they were
starving. I didn't think then— They let me take the Greeks be-
cause the Greek Church to our mind's a Protestant church— but
if I'd proposed transporting twelve hundred Catholics to the
Floridas as settlers— giving them lands— the men at Whitehall
would have cracked my whole project like an egg. I had to dis-
semble a little— how could I refuse starving men?— I thought once

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they were settled here— but the present governor's my enemy, as
you know—"

"Even so, sir—" said Andrew, trying to put in a word.

"See here, lad," said Dr. Gentian, very firmly and gently,
"Spain's still plotting to recover the Floridas. If I yield to these
men's demands and give them their lands now— the governor
can make a mare's nest out of it— enough to link me up with any
kind of a trumpery Spanish plot he can bogy the men in England
with. Then all New Sparta falls to the ground— and who gains
by it? Your friends, the Minorcans? No. I must put them off for
the present— till we have a new governor— or— "

"I can see the logic in everything you say, sir," said Andrew,
a trifle stubbornly, ubut nevertheless—" <

The green stone in Dr. Gentian's ring flashed as he stretched
out his hand to Andrew.

"Have I treated you like a son, Andrew— yes or no?" he said
quite simply, and Andrew felt touched and humbled, but a little
trapped as well. After all, whether or not Dr. Gentian had treated
him like a son had little to do with his treatment of the Minor-
cans.

"You have always treated me most kindly, sir," he said, a bit
grudgingly, yet hating himself for being grudging. "And yet—"

Dr. Gentian looked hurt. He dropped his hand.

"And yet you are unwilling to take my word on this— even
' when I assure you that one of my reasons for going to St. Augus-
tine will be my wish to remedy the matter with the governor?"

"Of course, I must take your word, sir— if you put it like
that," said Andrew, in a sudden glow of self-reproach.

"Ah," said Dr. Gentian, and laid a hand on his elbow. "Ah-
that's my good lad!"

Nevertheless, a tiny crack had come in the polished lacquer of
his relation with Dr. Gentian. Dr. Gentian's course of action
might be dictated by an expediency entirely honorable— but there
must be a Minorcan side, if only a mistaken one. Andrew re-
spected the Minorcans— they had great patience— he could not
think of them as lightly aroused. He intended to find out their
side— have a long talk with Sebastian— discuss things with some of

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the elders of the colony. Indeed, he intended much, and as people
will, remained satisfied with the intent, while time drifted away,
like a bough of wild peaches floating on a lazy stream.

The bright retiarius had caught and bound him in a dazzling
net—now its trident poised above him and he did not fear the
stroke. His servitude was too happy— why should he be free? —
he ran at a golden heel.

He did not go so often to the fields, now, or to Sebastian's hut.
For one thing, Dr. Gentian thought he should begin to take up
the accounting and governing side of the plantation. Besides, there
were expeditions for turtle, down the inlet, to be made in Sparta's
company— she handled a boat like a man. There were rides
through the green woods and sandy pine-barrens, and once, a
dance at a neighboring plantation a day's journey away, where he
saw divinity move through the stately patterns of louvre and
minuet with a jealous joy. This was no New York courtship,
done up in packthread stays, but something hardy and wild as a
journey up the face of a crag to take the eggs from the nest of
a mountain-eagle, and he rejoiced that it could be so.

Yet it seemed to him, often enough, that now, in betrothal, he
was less sure of her heart than ever before. Before, she had seemed
strange since she could never be his; now she was to be his indeed,
but she still was strange. He could touch the hand, kiss the lips,
hear the voice speak love, but in the eyes something remained
aloof, a spectator who watched all that befell them both like an
enchanter shut in a tower of clouded glass, without love or hate
or sin, with only a dispassionate interest in the certain working of
a spell. If he could once break that glass with the silver hammer
of his desire— perhaps it would come with marriage and the in-
cantation of the flesh. But the days passed, and the enchanter
watched, and the glass remained unbroken.

Dr. Gentian went to St. Augustine at last. Andrew would
hardly have noticed his departure, save for one thing. The Pride
of the Colonies was expected with long-delayed mail from the
North and might even bring an answer to the letter he had
written his father about his betrothal. The letter had been written
in March and it was nearly the end of May now. Then he came
back to the house, one evening, after a day at the vats, as Dr. Gen-
tian's deputy, to find his head heavy and thick^ and his hands hot.
He had caught a little fever, somehow, and was ill for several days.

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The illness, after the first, bad night had passed, gave him a
chance to consider a number of things he had not thought of
for some while. Sparta sent her maid to help nurse him, but did
not come often herself. He was glad of that— he did not want her
to see him with cracked lips and fever in his face. The maid was
very quiet and deft—she had cool hands, and moved without little
irritating creakings and rustlings, unlike most women.

They talked, now and then. She reminded him of Sebastian. He
had been remiss about Sebastian. Sebastian's monkey was dead-
he remembered that, now. He had gone to Sebastian to tell him
the great news and, while Sebastian had been appreciative enough,
Andrew saw that he was sad. He had asked about the monkey.

"Yes, Amigo is dead," said Sebastian, but would say no more,
though he looked at a little brass medal that hung around his
neck on a cord, and Andrew, who was bursting with talk, had felt
rebuffed. He asked the maid about Sebastian now.

"He is well, I think/' said the maid, holding a cup to his lips.
Andrew drank of the bitter infusion within it gratefully.

"Don't you ever see him?" he said, smiling, when the cup had
been taken away.

"He asks for you often. He hopes you will be better soon."
She avoided the direct reply.

"Oh, I'll be up and around in no time," said Andrew. "Thanks
to your nursing," he added.

"I am glad if my nursing has helped you," said the maid,
rather haltingly, as if she had to hunt for the English words.
"You are a friend of the Minorcans— or you have been."

"Tell me," said Andrew suddenly. "What did you mean that
time in the corridor when you said the Minorcans would never
get their lands? Dr. Gentian is going to give them their lands as
soon as the governor lets him."

"They will never have their lands," said the girl, sombrely.
Her eyes fixed him. "Sometimes Dr. Gentian sits in his tall room
with a gold cap on his head," she said, abruptly. "He sits there
like a king—he thinks he is a king— el rey—el rey—" Her voice
rose, "When he thinks that— men are taken into the woods to
have their backs combed with steel as the coat of a horse is
curried by its servant. That has not happened since you have
been here, but it has happened. He had a madness in him, then

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—a madness that hides— the madness of a drunken king. That is
why the Minorcans will never have their lands."

Andrew stared at her, wonderingly. The picture she presented
was wholly fantastic, but he could not doubt the sincerity in her
face.

"You're mad!" he said, finally. "Mad or— where did you ever
hear such a crazy tale?"

"I should not have spoken," said the girl, relapsing into her
amazing cairn. "You are going to marry my mistress. I should
not have spoken."

"What about Mr. Cave?" said Andrew, on impulse. "What do
you Minorcans think of Mr. Cave?"

The girl shrugged her shoulders. "He is a dog," she said,
quietly enough, though a bitterness colored her voice like rust.
"He is mad, too— but only with the madness of a dog."

"You're not very cheerful today," said Andrew, with invalid
peevishness. "And where you ever got such a farrago of nonsense
—God knows I hate Cave as much as any of you can— but you
make everything sound cruel."

She shrugged again. "What do you want me to say?" she said,
with that even bitterness. "Life is cruel. Men that are cruel do
no more than copy life."

"Don't," said Andrew, wincing, "I'm sorry you're so unhappy.
You oughtn't to be so unhappy if you're Sebastian's sweetheart."

"So I am Sebastian's sweetheart?" said the girl and smiled.

"Well-aren't you?"

"Am I? I don't know. How do you know? You are a boy,
sometimes— a little, little boy. You must take your medicine."

"I don't want it," complained Andrew, childishly. "You just
gave it to me, anyhow."

"You must take it often." She approached him with the cup.
"It takes away the fever. See, you are much cooler, this after-
noon." She laid a hand on his forehead— the light touch was cool
and firm as if she had brushed his brow with a ringdove's feather,
fallen upon cool stones.

"There now. Go to sleep. Sleep mends the fever, too."

"Why do you say such things about Dr. Gentian?" said
Andrew, impatiently, but she turned away with her finger on
her lips and sat down again in her chair. He watched her through
half-closed eyes, seeing again the dark Madonna in the niche

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of the Spanish church. A single lamp burned before it—the face
was calm and secret— the face of a gypsy saint— a mystery hung
above it like a dove in chains. He could feel the touch of fingers
upon his brow, cool as the roots of lilies, bathed in water from
the hills. He lay for a long time silent, half-drowsing, thinking
of Dr. Gentian in a gold cap and a lamp before an image, and the
roots of lilies steeped in a clear, cold stream.

Next morning the fever had gone; his body felt weak, but no
longer possessed. He lay alone all morning feeling his strength
return to him and listening with mild curiosity to the various
noises of the house. The day was hot and sultry, he could feel
that inside his skin, but his room was cool and he did not mind.
He had a convalescent's desire for visitors and talk, but the only
person he saw till noon was the body-servant who brought his
breakfast, and the boy slipped away before he could question
him much.

He asked for Sparta— Miss Gentian was well, but occupied, she
sent her regrets at not being able to visit him till later. Then he
asked for the Minorcan maid. The boy stammered and said that
she was occupied too, on some work for Mrs. Gentian. He
noticed that the boy seemed uneasy and as if he were listening
for something in the pauses of his speech, but laid it to the heat.
"Here," said Andrew, feeling generous, and getting his purse
from under his pillow, tossed him one of the Spanish dollars that
still passed current— the boy was a good servant and deserved an
occasional coin. The boy murmured his thanks, pouched the
dollar quickly, and disappeared, leaving Andrew to idleness and
musing.

After a while he fell asleep and woke much refreshed. The
house was very quiet and he began to consider getting up. He
looked at his watch— it had stopped— but, by the light in the
room, it must be mid-afternoon. A tray with food was beside him
on the table— someone must have come and gone without rousing
him. He was disturbed at the thought that it might have been
Sparta. He called for his boy, and no one answered. Then he

fave it up and set to his lunch with the first real hunger he had
nown in some days.

Later, he was wakened from another nap by an indefinite
sound like the soft closing of the door of his room. He stared at
the door— the curtains near it still moved, but if there had been

Stephen Vincent Benet

a visitor, the visitor had departed. He could have sworn that, in
the first confused instant of waking, he had seen a face staring in
through the closing crack of the door—a face like Sparta's, but
not hers, for the eyes in this face were hostile. A dream, probably
—the shadows had changed again and the air of the room was
charged with a heavy, groping twilight. But as soon as he was
fully awake, his decision to get up was taken. The bed had
grown wrinkled and uncomfortable, besides, he wanted to find
out why nobody had been near him all day.

He dressed clumsily, taking a long time. He was not as well
as he had thought, he found— the fever had made him lax, and
sweat came on his hands when he bent to put on his shoes. How-
ever, he managed things at last, and went over to look at himself
in the mirror. His cheeks were a little sunken, and his hair
lanker than he would have liked, but otherwise he seemed much
as usual. The effort it was to control his body properly did not
tell in the glass. He would go downstairs now. He would go
down and surprise Sparta with the news of his recovery.

It would be more difficult to get downstairs than he had sup-
posed. The main staircase looked long and formidable— he looked
at it and wondered. Then he remembered the other, easier stair-
case, at the bottom of the corridor, that led directly to Dr. Gen-
tian's high-ceiled study. He found it and started going down— it
was dark and winding, but the steps were shorter. He went
gingerly and quietly, for fear of falling. At the landing he
paused, remembering, with a smile, Dr. Gentian's disquisition on
the proposed planetary map for the ceiling. The panel that slid
back behind the moon, must be about here— yes. His fingers found
the catch. Mechanically, he slid it open and peered through the
little round opening into the room below.

What he saw made his fingers shake on the latch of the panel.
Sparta Gentian and Mr. Cave were seated in the study, talking.
On the table between them was a pair of candles that burnt with
a still flame, glasses, and a half-emptied bottle of wine.

"There's no heat in this liquor, Sparta," Cave was complain-
ing in his grunting accents. "Why can't we have rum, you white
doll?— you know well enough I'd rather have rum." His coat was
pushed back, his shirt open at the throat— his whole face looked
stupid and savage as the mask of a boar. Andrew saw them both
very plainly, in spite of the gloom in the room. A taste like

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the taste of bitter aloes came into his mouth, and he felt his
heart turn slowly to a dull, hard, gleaming stone.

"You can't have rum because I choose to talk to you, Charles—
not watch you fall asleep with your head in your arms," Sparta's
lyric voice had never been more flawed with crystal. "If the
wine doesn't suit you— spill it on the floor— I'll wipe it up with
my kerchief and wear it for a favor."

"By God, I believe you would," grumbled Mr. Cave, reaching
out for her hand. "You're a brave wench, Sparta. Come kiss me
for a brave wench."

"Not now," said Sparta steadily. "You smell too much of your
wine. You've had enough kisses from me till you master the
world and make me proud of you."

"You lie, you golden slut!" said Mr. Cave, and thumped his
fist on the table, "I've never had enough of your kisses yet— nor
likely— unless you've grown so finicky-fine this last month you'd
rather have that sick cat in yellow breeches squeeze you because
he sets up for a gentleman— the shopkeeping little snotty-nose!
Come kiss me, I say— I want to get the taste of him out of my
mind."

"You're a sweet fool, Charles," said Sparta, and went around to
him. Then Andrew, glaring down at them from his spy-hole,
could have groaned aloud, for he saw divinity incarnate sit down
on Mr. Cave's knees like a barmaid, and Mr. Cave's red hand
bend back the golden head till his mouth could settle with thirsty
violence on the lips that Andrew had kissed in the anguish of
a boy's first worship. The sight made him sick and faint, but he
could not move away. A bleak fascination held him to the hole
in back of the moon, through which he beheld, with incredulous
agony, the sky of his self-made universe fall to pieces with a
jangle of shattered glass and lie in broken stars in the mud at the
bottom of the world.

"There," said Mr. Cave. "And there," in the pauses of his noisy
embracements, "that's for every time he's paddled with your
hand in the dark— and that's for every pimping New York
dolly-name he's ever called you! Oh, kiss me, you jewel!" he
squeaked in a sort of ecstasy. "Kiss me and tell me who you
love with all your body and bones!"

"Enough, Charles, enough," said Sparta, drowsily, her voice
very golden. "You know I love no man but you."

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Stephen Vincent Eenet

"Well, it's time and more that I heard it," said Cave, releasing
her. He seemed to grow quite simple, of a sudden. His voice
sank— his mouth drooped like a child's. "Where do you think
I've been since you two were betrothed? In hell. In the pit of
hell. They lie if they say there's no hell— I know— I've smoked in
it. To see him walking with you, with his hand on your arm.
You'd best be true with me now, wench." He seemed almost
pleading, "You'd best be true."

"I am true, Charles."

"But you betrothed—"

She made a gesture. "Father," she said.

"I know your father," said Cave sullenly. "He's a planny man,
your father. He's planned to marry you off to a fool with money
ever since you were husband-high."

She laughed sharply. "My father is a lucky gentleman," shf
said. "He may have planned— but God sent him the perfect fool
How can anyone be so utterly a fool as my Andrew, Charles?"

"He loves you," Cave admitted grudgingly. "A man's blinded,
then." He stared at his fist.

"Granted," she said, jeeringly. "But— if you think you have
been in hell Charles, these last weeks— to have to take that stam-
mering boy in my arms and give him his lollypop kisses—" Her
eyes were bright with hate, "I may have to marry him yet— but
if I do-"

"If you do, he'll never bed you," said Cave, in a rigid voice.
"I'd have his guts on the floor first."

"No," said Sparta, with an edged and terrible smile. "He may
bed me yet, Charles— perhaps— but— he shan't marry me."

"And I tell you," said Cave, starting up, with his eyes little,
burning holes.

She stopped him with a gesture. "Hush, Charles," she said.
"You don't understand me yet, I'd do anything for you, Charles.
Sit down and give me some wine."

He obeyed, muttering. She drank the wine in a gulp and wiped
her lips.

"Tell me, Charles, how soon will you be ready?"

"I have my men picked now," said Cave, in a thick voice,
"Italians mostly. They're ripe. They hate the Mahonese as the
devil hates church-bells."

''And the Mahonese are ready to strike, themselves?"

Spanish Bayonet

"If they're not they have no bellies/' said Cave, impatiently.
"They've been pushed to the wall. You'd think they'd have
broken before."

"Very well," said Sparta, calmly. "The Minorcans revolt. My
father cannot subdue them—unless you choose. He can't get aid
from the governor— the governor's against him. If you choose—"

"There's a price," said Cave, glowering. "I want you. I want
the plantation. He wants his life and— I'd give him some place, I
suppose. If he doesn't choose it that way— By the way— what
about that lover of yours?"

"What you will," said Sparta, and smiled.

"I know what I will. But now, sweetheart, what if your father
will not—"

"I would not have you too much concerned about my father,"
said Sparta, reflectively.

Cave stared at her. "By God, you're a cold piece," he said,
huskily.

"Not to you, Charles." She rose to her full height. "I'd see
you a king, Charles— not the master of one trifling plantation
here."

"And who says I couldn't be a king!" said Cave, with a touch
of half-drunken defiance. "Haven't bastards been kings before.
What was William Conquer but a common bastard— yet he had
all England under his teeth? I'm as good a bastard as he was,
any day— I can—"

uThen be a king!" she said in a voice that seemed to shake
out a banner with a dragon on it above the quiet yellow spear-
heads of the candles. She brought her clenched hand down on the
table as if she wanted to bruise its softness against something
hostile and hard. "My father has money hidden somewhere— he
must— you have men— strength— we could take ships— Davis did it
—Teach was a fool, but Morgan did it— There are pirate king-
doms, still— I tell you this— 111 be a queen or nothing, Charles—
I love you very well, but I must be a queen— I'd starve for it—
I'd burn my hand in the flame for it— see— "

Her voice sank to a dry whisper, as she stretched her hand
out over the nearest candle. Cave snatched it back, at once, with
a terrified wordless sound. Then she was clinging to his shoulders,
pleading with him, in that fierce, brittle monotone.

"A queen, Charles— they made Harry Morgan a governor— what

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was Spanish Pizarro but a pirate, yet he held Peru like a king—
the time's not over yet— a queen, Charles— and you a king—"

But, "No, lass— no— " he was muttering unsteadily, trying to
seem very bold, yet with shaken eyes, "you're trying me with
talk like that— 'tis impossible— I'll raise the colony on your father
right enough— I'll make you a right queen here if that's what
you want, but turn pirate against the world and end in the hemp
and the chains—"

His unsteady hand was fumbling with her hair, trying to quiet
her— she had sunk to the floor now, and was gripping his knees,
still pleading.

"Have done, girl— have done!" he said, in weak repetition but
she would not be quieted, though Mr. Cave was now fairly
sweating with discomfort and surprise. Further protestation was
spared him for the moment, for, on the tail of his last sentence,
the door opened slowly and admitted the tall, stately figure of
Mrs. Gentian to the curious scene. Mr. Cave froze at once, like
a rabbit surprised by an owl, but Sparta rose from the floor with
some dignity and confronted her mother.

"You fool," said the latter, slowly. "You bawdy little fool."

To Andrew, at his stricken post of observation, her voice was
clear and thin as the voice of a corpse speaking from the dust,
and he felt the sweat dry on his hands as he heard it.

She turned to Mr. Cave. "Kennel, dog!" she said, tersely, and
Mr. Cave, after one blustering, ineffective gesture, caught a
glance from Sparta, and passed out of the room with his brow
red and his eyes bent on the floor. Then Mrs. Gentian eyed her
daughter.

"You madam," she said, without rancor. "You madam in gauze.
What do you mean by chambering here with that lackey when
the gentleman you're to marry lies sick in his bed upstairs?"

"Faith, madam," said. Sparta, hardly, giving her gaze for gaze.
"It must run in the blood, I think— for my father, too, has a liking
for the servants' hall."

Mrs. Gentian's hand went slowly to her breast, but her face
betrayed no emotion.

"You're indeed his very daughter to say that," she said, quietly,
and now Sparta's eyes wavered and fell before hers. "But let it
be so. I've heard you call the man you're to marry a fool."

"Do you disagree, madam?"

Spanish Bayonet

"Not I," said Mrs. Gentian, and laughed. "He's a puff of
painted feathers— I'll buy his like for six-pence at a Punch-and-
Judy. But, fool or no fool, he's rich, or his father is. Your father
needs those riches—and no hot little miss like you is going to
lecher him out of them. Do you understand, miss?"

"I had not thought you so greatly attached to my father," said
Sparta in a stabbing voice.

"God knows I'm not," said her mother, tiredly. "But I'll not see
him humbled."

"And is it your proposal, madam, that I should—"

"I propose this," said Mrs. Gentian. Her hand fell upon Sparta's
shoulder and held it. "If this ninny you're to marry once knew
what's passed between you and that lawyer's by-blow— he'd
throw you aside like an applecore for all his ninnyishness. You
must fasten him to you by his ninny's honor or lose him. You'll
have him in your room, miss— as soon as he can walk— oh, I'll
trust you for that— you have ways that would blind a sailor— but
that you'll do. After that—" Her smile was an East wind. "Let
him marry you or keep you— it matters little— we have him in a
yoke."

Andrew could bear no more. He shut the panel with fumbling
fingers and somehow got up the stairs and back to his room.
When he reached there, he found the Minorcan girl, just done
with tidying his room and about to leave. She gave a soft cry
as she saw his face.

"Oh, go away, go away!" he sobbed wildly, as he flung himself
into a chair and put his head in his hands. "Go away and pray
for me, Caterina— I think I am the unhappiest man in the world!"

6.

Andrew lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling with tor-
mented eyes. He had thought he had known shock before, when
his father's easy voice abolished the Beards of Westmoreland
with a sentence. But that half-forgotten wound in the vanity of
youth seemed like a wound in silk to this present pain. Again he
felt the solid floor of life turn under him dizzily and alter— but
this time it did not merely change, it blackened while he looked
at it to the color of corrupted silver and soiled thunder walked
in iron wherever he could see. The knowledge of good and evil

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Stephen Vincent Eenet

had descended upon him at last, and he lay excruciated beneath
it, like a harper crucified upon the strings of his own heart.

That his pain might well have seemed unnecessarily acute to
any dispassionate observer would hardly have consoled him, had
he known it. He saw the whole world now as a lie, which it was
no more than it ever had been. But circumstance had mixed in
him the fool and the gentleman— qualities both somewhat in dis-
repair nowadays— and at present, no doubt, the gentleman was
somewhat sunk in the fool. The cold brain of heaven, whose
thought is a falling star between illusion and illusion, might
properly regard his adolescent strugglings with befitting con-
tempt but that task of scorn may, perhaps, be left to it.

A certain, stale equanimity returned to him at last. He was still
dazed and shaken but he began to think. At one moment he was
quite confident that what he had seen in Dr. Gentian's study
was merely a nightmare of the mind— at another that Sparta, for
some inexplicable reason, had been playing a game upon the sullen
Mr. Cave. But truth seeped in gradually through his defenses and
at last he stood ready to accept the fact.

Seen clearly, the situation was only too plausible. He had often
thought humbly enough, that it was strange that Sparta should
love him, and strange that she should never have loved before.
Well, she had loved before, that was all, and if she chose to gar-
land an ass with roses, such was her prerogative. It seemed curious
to Andrew that this wise and reasonable thought brought him so
little relief. He began to consider just what there was to be done.

He must get away from New Sparta. But then he shuddered
—he and Sparta were still betrothed, as much as they ever had
been, he remembered with sudden pain. It hardly lay with de-
cency to call her a slut to her father's face— yet what other reason
could he give for so sudden a departure? Then there was Mr.
Cave's mad plan of an uprising in the colony— a driving of the
Minorcans to revolt. Admitted, he now owed Dr. Gentian little
but the hate of a bamboozled sailor for his crimp— the Minorcans
were still his friends— Sebastian— he could not go without warn-
ing them. Now indeed he felt a net on his body and struggled
at the cords in futile disgust. His struggles were interrupted by a
light knock at the door. He called. The door opened. Sparta was
there.

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Spanish Bayonet

"Why Andrew, dear," she said, looking at him in affectionate
surprise. "I thought to find you still in bed with the fever and
bring you your supper. But you are well again— and I am so
glad."

Her voice was the same dropping skein of gold-and-crystal that
he remembered— the same enchanter slept in her eyes.

He looked at her a long time. No, he could not talk to her now.

uMy fever's gone," he said at last. "I think I'll come down to
supper, if you'll call the boy to lend me his arm."

He was sitting at table in Dr. Gentian's chair. The room had
not changed its aspect— the fruit-piece by Vanderrnoulen still
hung above the sideboard where silver glimmered in the candle-
shine. The ladies he supped with took peaches from a bowl and
peeled them delicately with silver knives. There was no mark
upon their white hands like the mark of a bloody paw— the wine
in the decanter at his elbow seemed excellent St. Lucar,— he could
savor its bouquet quite naturally. That was odd, thought Andrew
dully, as he ate and drank and talked. He felt vaguely that things
should have been different— more in keeping with the tiny, per-
sistent sound that tapped like blood flowing from a wound con-
tinually inside his head. He had yet to realize that tragedy may
occur in a bandbox and that horror needs no set apparatus of
skeletons to make the bones feel cold.

It was odd too, that he should be eating and drinking. He
watched his knife cut a piece of meat, his fork carry it to his
mouth. The hand did not falter at all, nor the throat refuse to
swallow. All his muscles obeyed him handily— it was clever of
them. He could question and reply in a normal voice— he found
himself listening with every appearance of attention to a long,
tedious account by Mrs. Gentian of some customs of the Span-
iards in St. Augustine.

It appeared there was one called "Shooting the Jews." Oil the
Saturday morning after Good Friday, when the bells rang halle-
lujah from the Cathedral, the Spanish inhabitants would shoot at
straw dummies labelled Judas and Caiaphas, hung up at the
corners of certain streets. Really, how interesting, he heard him-

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Stephen Vincent Benet

self saying, while privately he searched Mrs. Gentian's calm face
for any signature which might betray that she had been born in
hell and was surprised to find none there.

So the servants went and came, and plates were laid and re-
moved, with the passage of innumerable minutes, till the world
grew old and white and tottered upon a dry branch like a dying
cripple, and a stone hardened in Andrew's breast, and three
people sat enchanted around a long table, peeling peaches and
putting the flesh of peaches in their mouths. At last it was over,
and he was left with his wine.

He arranged nuts on the table, very carefully, in a cross, in
a square, in the initials of his brother's name. His mind seemed
to have room for nothing but the exactitude of their patterns.
He could think consecutively no longer— he was tired of thinking.

A nut rolled away from under his hand, and he cursed it
whiningly and replaced it in its design with nice deliberation.
Presently he would go up to his room with the India chintz
hangings, and, if he had his wish, would die among its printed
flowers like an insect crushed between leaves of painted paper.
But that would not happen— people did not die as easily as that.

Mrs. Gentian and Sparta had watched each other all through
the meal like cat and cat. A detached part of his consciousness
told him that now, in the lifeless voice of a boy repeating a dull
lesson. And, for once, Mrs. Gentian had seemed the stronger
of the two. Did that mean anything— if it did, he was too tired to
think what it might mean.

Presently he was pleading fatigue to the ladies and climbing
the stairs to his room. The shadows wavered in the corridor be-
fore his candle. He wished, vaguely, that he could see that
Minorcan girl, now, as he had first seen her, coming toward him
like the image of a barbarous saint walking the sea, the light of
a single candle ghostly upon the darkness of her brows. But even
if she did come, she would turn to something evil as soon as he
touched her. All things turned to evil the moment they were
touched. There was evil in the very particles of the air, an im-
palpable dust of black glass, and people took it into their lungs
and turned into dolls of spoilt stra^v and rotten leather that fell
to pieces as they moved.

Sebastian's thunder was coming. He could hear it growl in the
distance like a dog on a chain. The thought of the bright blade

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of lightning gave him a little ease— that at least was clean, and
could run sick arrogance to the heart.

He was sitting, still dressed, in a chair in his room. Time had
passed, but how long a time he did not know. The candle on
the table burnt unevenly, with a smoky flame. The house was
quiet— the thunder nearer at hand.

He passed his hand over his forehead and tried to collect his
thoughts. The heat in his brain like the throb of blood from a
spent artery, had eased a little now— he was still in stupor, but
the weight of it was not so extreme. He began to realize that,
whatever else might have happened to him, the fever was not yet
wholly gone from his body. He must sleep— after he had slept,
the beat in his head might stop.

He was about to rise when his eyes were drawn to the door.
It was opening— a crack— a gap— letting in soft blackness. He
stared at it, without fear or surprise. It might be Death— if it
were, he would not lift a hand.

A hand, a bare arm, came slowly out of the darkness. The hand
held a white flower between its fingers. It was Sparta's hand.

After what seemed a long time, "Andrew," said Sparta's voice,
in a low call. He shut his teeth and would not answer. There
( was silence, while the hand moved a little and the curtains waved
in the draft. Then, "Andrew," said the voice again— the fine gold
streaking the crystal with threads of radiance. Then hand and
flower were slowly withdrawn and the door closed gradually,
leaving Andrew staring like a blind man at where they had been.

His pistols lay on the table near him, in their case. He took
one of them out and examined it slowly, with minute care. The
priming needed to be changed— this damp weather ruined one's
priming. But he made no move to change it. He fiddled with the
trigger a moment, a childish look on his face, not thinking of
anything; then he forgot why he had taken up the pistol, and
stuck it in his pocket to get it out of the way. His hands relaxed
—the spinning in his mind began to slacken, like a top running
down.

After another while, he rose, stiffly, and smiled. The stupor had
passed from him— he knew what he would do. If the world were
colored like a bat he would take the color of the world. He
would take the instant of brisk desire for the image seen in a
cloud and know in its entirety the damnation of possession and

Stephen Vincent Benet

the wittiness of the flesh. He would despoil as he had been
despoiled and lose the rags of gold he had brought from fool's
paradise in the quick heat of the blood as a wise man should.

A sudden glare of heat lightning showed his face to him in the
mirror. It was haggard and strange, but he smiled at it and went
to the door. Down the corridor, packed with bags of darkness,
lay another door with a white flower before it, and he was
going there to sleep with a ghost.

PART THREE:

THE PIT OF OPPRESSION

All along the corridor, utter night lay reclined like the body
of a great, black cat, asleep with its head on its heavy paws. He
went softly— to his dizzy mind it seemed as if at any moment his
feet might sink into dark, sleek fur and a bristling, gigantic back
hump up uneasily beneath them. The corridor seemed much
longer than it did in daylight— why had he blown out the candle
in his room? He had come some distance and still he could see
no door with a white flower before it— he must have passed it,
somehow, in this place where darkness was a mask of black
satin across the eyes.

He turned about, as he thought, and started to grope his way
back, with his hands out before him. They touched against a
wall. He grew confused and stopped, trying to fix the points of
the compass in his head. He turned again, walked forward and
came up against another wall— the corridor was gone— he was
trapped in a narrowing box of velvet and ebony whose sides
shut in around him like a closing fist. The ludicrous aspect of the
situation did not strike him— he had passed beyond humor— his
mind was a sharpened point that had given itself entirely to the
pull of a dark lodestone and now wished with all its strength
to touch that lodestone and cease. He stood perfectly still for a
long moment before the unreasonable wall that had so suddenly
risen up in front of him, angry, ridiculous, impotent, and more
than a little afraid.

Ah, he had it at last. He turned to the left and moved forward
—right— the wall was gone. Sparta's chamber must be farther

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Spanish Bayonet

along, on the other side of the cross-corridor—he would find it
now. A sound would have helped him greatly— but there was no
sound at all in the buried world through which he moved but
thunder rattling the iron roof of heaven and the creeping noise
of his own shoes. No, wait a moment. There was another sound.

There was another sound, faint and distant, as if it came
through mufflings of black wool, but distinct enough when he
listened for it, a sound made by some creature in pain. He paused
and listened intently. At first he could not fix its direction. It
seemed to come at once from everywhere and from nowhere, as
if the encompassing and shadowy air of night itself were whis-
pering to itself in quietness a single, monotonous word of obscure
anguish. Then at last, after much time, he traced it down. The
sound came from above, it was the voice of the Minorcan girl,
and she was calling "Water, water, water," very slowly and
weakly, as if her throat were small with pain.

He stood irresolute for a few seconds, the blood thudding in
his head. Something hot and stinging began to die from his veins.
"Water, water, water," said the thread of breath from above, in
desolate supplication. He remembered a mole he had seen once,
after dogs had worried it—it lay on its side, half-dead, and made
much the same feeble, pitiful outcry, thin and incessant as the
creak of a locust. He had been ready for desire and hate— for
Death playing knucklebones with his joints in a corner— but for
this he had not been ready. He could not go to Sparta with that
haunted outcry in his ears.

He turned again, and bruised his shin against the bottom step
of a stair. He knew where he was, then— he had strayed into the
cross-corridor by mistake— the servants' quarters were above.
"Water," said the voice, and choked. He started to climb the stair.

The thread of voice led him to a closed door. He tried it— it was
locked but the key was on the outside. Then, just at the point of
unlocking it, he paused. What was he doing here— he was looking
for another door, a door with a flower before it. He had not
come all this way with a black hand muffing his face to comfort
a serving-wench in the throes of a bad dream. He started to turn
back, but as he did so, "Water," said the crucified voice again,
and the accents were not those of an imaginary anguish. He
cursed himself for a fool, and turned the key.

At first he could see little in the room but the pale square of

Stephen Vincent Benet

the window. Then, outside, a jagged thornbush of lightning flow-
ered for an instant and vanished, and in its abrupt glare, brief as
the flashing of powder, he saw the Minorcan girl standing upright
against the foot of her bed. But now she seemed much taller than
he had thought her. She was standing on tiptoe— why was she
standing on tiptoe, and why were her arms stretched up stiffly
over her head? Then she gave an inarticulate groan and he real-
ized, with a shock, that she was bound, and suspended from the
ceiling by a cord tied round her wrists so that the tips of her
toes just brushed the floor.

He ran over to her and tried to lift her up in his arms. She
gave a moan of relief or pain and her head drooped suddenly on
his shoulder. Then he was trying to raise her with one arm and
pick at the knots in the cord with his other hand. "Knife," he
kept whispering to himself, inanely. "Knife. Knife. Knife.
Where's knife?" It seemed hours before the knife was out of his
pocket and the cord frayed apart.

He caught her in his arms. Her body was loose and heavy as
the body of a rebellious child— she had fainted with exhaustion
and pain. Staggeringly, he lifted her on the bed and laid her
down as comfortably as he could. She stirred a little and sighed.
"Agua" she said, in a whisper. He found some water in a ewer,
splashed it clumsily on her face, wet her lips with it. Outside the
thunder grew fainter and rain began to fall in a black, streaming
torrent. He did not notice it. He knew only that he would never
breathe easily again, if he did not bring back to life, if but for an
instant, this slight, defiant flesh, austere now, coldly wrapped in
the husk of a darker flower than Sleep's.

She came back to consciousness, grudgingly, like a child learn-
ing to walk, like a visitor long-detained by a gift of pomegran-
ates at a stony threshold and still half -unwilling to return. At last
she was strong enough to sit up and make the woman's automatic
gesture at arranging her hair.

"Thank Christ," said Andrew, shakily, hardly knowing what
he said, "I thought you werfc dead."

"I was dead," said the Minorcan girl, and smiled a little. "How
did you know?"

"I heard you— in the corridor— you were crying—"

She bit her lips. "They hurt my hands," she said, looking at
them. "They hurt my hands."

tS6

Spanish Bayonet

"Who did it?" said Andrew, voice and body cold.

"She said I was her husband's strumpet," said the Minorcan
girl, her eyes very black in the darkness. "She said she'd teach
me. Then she got Mr. Cave."

"I think I shall kill Mr. Cave," said Andrew. "But your— the
other servants— they must have heard— Good God— the key was
in the door—"

"They are Greeks," said the Minorcan girl. "Touch a Greek
and you touch a rat. Besides—they are hers and Mr. Cave's."

"They are devils," said Andrew, sobbingly. "This is a house of
devils— oh, a house of devils—"

"Listen," said the Minorcan girl, with that smile that set her
apart from him, in a circle of antique and savage stones. "Even
yet, you do not know." And, sitting on the bed, while the rain
slashed at the window, and Andrew dabbed at her bloody wrists
with a torn handkerchief, she began, quite quietly, her recital of
five years' wrong. There was no passion in the sentences— if there
had been Andrew felt he could have borne their impact more
easily. There was only the calm, insistent pulse of her even voice,
throbbing slowly in the darkness like the beating of the wings
of a tired bird.

"So they hanged the priest in his robes, on a wooden post, and
stuck a piece of bread in his mouth to mock him," her voice
tolled gravely. It was the unforgivable sin. "After that—"

"Oh, for God's sake, Caterina— for God's sake—" stammered
Andrew, excruciated beyond his strength. "Can't we get away
from this house— tonight— in the rain— they can't hear us in the
rain— there are horses in the stable— we'll ride to St. Augustine-
tell the governor— he'll help us— my father's rich— we'll take
Sebastian, too— Oh, come, Caterina, come—" He was pulling at
her hands. She clenched her teeth, and he realized that he had
hurt her.

"How can I ride, with my hands?" she said, helplessly.

"I'll tie you to the saddle— you can ride pillion behind Sebas-
tian or me— you must, Caterina— you must— we can't stay here
any more—" He was pleading with her now, as if for some salva-
tion of spirit that lay hidden between her hands like a coral
amulet. Her face was serene as she listened. She made a little
gesture.

"Wait," she said, and rose from the bed. When she was on her

Stephen Vincent Benet

feet she swayed for an instant. "Ah, Dios," she said, under her
breath. Andrew offered her his shoulder, but she put him aside
and walked slowly over to the other end of the room. There was
a little shrine there— a cheap, plaster image of the Virgin. Her
robes had been gaudily colored in staring blues and reds but they
were mildewed now and the colors were faint and gentle. A tiny
wick burned in a small cup of rancid oil at her feet. (Caterina
sank to her knees.

"Madre de Dios— Mary Virgin— Tower of Ivory— House of
Gold—" she began, in Mahonese, in a soft, lulling voice. Andrew
watched her perplexedly from the bed. The scene touched him
with pity and grief, but it was something he could not under-
stand. He would have been glad enough to kneel beside Caterina
himself and pray, if he had thought it would bring her any com-
fort, but there was something in the absorption of her eyes, as
she gazed at the tawdry little doll with a tarnished crown, that
made her incomprehensible. It belonged, with the flower of the
Spanish bayonet, to an earth that was not his— an earth in which
he would always be a stranger. And yet, as the mutter of the
prayer went on, he knew that he did not wish to be a stranger
to that alien, enchanted ground*

When Caterina had finished, and crossed herself, with head
bowed, she came back to him.

"Yes. I will come," she said. Their (eyes met— for an instant he
seemed to see behind hers, into her Heart. There was a message
there, clear and pure as if air had written it on a tablet of moun-
tain-snow, but a message he could not read, for it was written
in her language, and to him the characters of that language were
mysterious as marks carved upon a druid stone. He stared for an
instant, vainly— hoping for a Pentecost that did not descend. Then
the veil fell between them again.

They crept down the stairs together, hand in hand, like chil-
dren afraid of the dark. When they got to the long corridor, she
turned to go down it but he held her back. "No. Not that way,"
he said. He felt suddenly as if he could not bear to stumble past
the door with the white flower, even to get his other pistol and
his father's letters. He was in a torment of impatience to leave
the coquina house behind him forever. There must be arms in
Dr. Gentian's study— besides, there was less chance of arousing
the' house if they went through there.

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Spanish Bayonet

He smiled. The high chamber with the gold stars in its ceiling
which had seen his imaginary Eden crumble to ash should be the
instrument of their deliverance from this house of pain. He led
the way slowly to the hidden stair.

When they had reached the panel behind the moon, an instinct
of precaution made him slide it back and look. So, for the second
time that day, an odd vision was vouchsafed him.

Dr. Gentian stood in front of the fireplace, warming his hands.
He must have been but newly come from the road, for his
muddy boots were set in a corner to dry and his riding-coat,
stretched out on a chair before the fire, was streaked and spat-
tered. He himself, however, was as neat and trim as ever. He
had changed his muddied coat for a loose dressing-gown and his
boots for soft Moorish slippers, worked with gold thread and
turned up in stiff petals at the toes. On his head was a turban of
yellow silk, such as many gentlemen who had served in the
Indies affected, and he rubbed his hands over and over each other
like a fly cleaning its wings, as he talked to himself in a low,
quick voice and smiled at the fire.

Andrew could feel the Minorcan girl's whole body shudder
against his for an instant and then grow still. "The gold cap!"
she whispered in the voice of a beaten ghost. "He has on the
gold cap. We shall never get free of him now."

"Nonsense," said Andrew, though he too was oddly affected
by the sight of that spruce, quaint figure crowned with an in-
verted tulip-flower, smiling dimly and talking under its breath to
a burning log. "We'll take the other stairs." He shut the panel
and started to go back. But a few steps away from the upper
door, he stopped and listened. There were footsteps in the corri-
dor, a light step and a heavy one, going to and fro like the pace
of sentries on guard.

"They are looking for me already," said the Minorcan girl,
slowly, with a calm despair.

Andrew hesitated, feeling the lips of a velvet trap close slowly
upon them both in the narrow darkness. Then he made up his
mind. Better face Caesar in his study than chance what might be
in the upper corridor. His mind stuck on the thought that the
house had orders not to disturb the Doctor when he wished quiet
and that there was deadening in the walls of the high-ceiled
chamber. His hand slid to the butt of his pistol— he had never

189

Stephen Vincent Eenet

killed a man— what was it like when you killed a man? He saw
Caesar sprawled in front of the fire with blood on his neck— a
little flame stole out shyly from a log and licked at the yellow
turban. He shivered. Fool, he was wasting time. "We'll risk it,"
he said hoarsely, and went sneaking down the stairs again.

At their foot, he paused. The Minorcan girl was on the step
behind him— he could hear the flutter of her breath. Beyond, in
the study, was another sound— Dr. Gentian's voice, plainer now.

At first Andrew thought some one else must have come into
the room— the Doctor's tones were the tones of a man talking in-
timately to a familiar friend. He put his eyes to a crack in the
door. He could see little, but no other form than the Doctor's
crossed the range of his vision. Then he realized that though the
Doctor's voice questioned and affirmed and at times even pleaded,
as if the friend he addressed were a superior in rank, there was
never any reply.

The voice went on and on. "I saw Baron Funck in London," it
said. "He took me into a room full of silver candlesticks and
swore he would show me a secret, but the only secret he showed
me was a juggler's trick. Then there was Hauptzchn in Dresden
—he had Lully's book but he did not have the key. The Rose-
Cross is nothing— they pretend to make diamonds but they do not
know the writing on the wall of the tabernacle or the tears of the
Golden King. In India I have seen the man climb the rope and
the flower rise from the dust and go back again— I have seen
the basket thrust through with swords— but I wish more than
that. Am I not an Initiate? Have I not heard the goat cry in the
dark and scattered the herb in the fire? I cannot seek elsewhere
again— I have grown too old." The voice had a note of chant,
now. "There is something buried at the roots of the mountains
—why can I not put my hand on it? Bacon had the knowledge
they say— am I so much less wise? I will not fool myself with
crystals and black wafers— these things are folly, but there is
something left— something beyond the speculum— behind the
glass. I will give my soul for it, I tell you— I will give my soul
for it." Now the tones were those of a merchant driving a canny
bargain. "1 can give you a thousand souls. You are foolish not to
bargain with me. Come out of the fire, Baphomet— Baphomet—
Baphomet— " the voice reached a shriek of supplication. "Come
out of the fire, Baphomet, and buy my souls!"

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Spanish Bayonet

Through his crack, Andrew saw the yellow turban waver and
droop in fatigue like a crocus beaten by the wind. Now. He flung
open the door and stepped into the room with his pistol clutched
tight in sweating fingers.

The shock of his abrupt appearance, to a gentleman who so
obviously expected other visitors, must have been painful in the
extreme, but Dr. Gentian bore it with admirable equanimity. He
put his hand to his mouth once, slowly, while his face altered.
Then he came forward to Andrew, smiling, with hand out-
stretched, as if the pistol presented at his heart had no more
importance than a sprig of rosemary.

"Ah, Andrew," he said cheerfully, "I had hardly hoped to see
you before the morning. Come over by the fire, lad, and warm
yourself— the house is chilly with the rain."

"Keep your distance," said Andrew hoarsely, "keep your dis-
tance, you miracle of hell, or I'll shoot your heart out."

Dr. Gentian's hand dropped to his side. He looked puzzled and
distressed.

"Why lad," he said gently, "are you still so fevered?" He
smiled sympathetically, "Or did my playacting just now fright-
how much did you hear of it?" he said in a swift breath.

"Enough," said Andrew wretchedly. "Keep your distance, Dr.
Gentian— I have no wish to murder you, but I leave your house
tonight."

"I forbid it," said Dr. Gentian, promptly, "as your physician,
if not as Sparta's father." Fie came a little nearer. "Let me look
at your eyes, lad— yes, they're bright." He shook his head. "Far
too bright— and your pulse is beating like a hammer I'll warrant,
and your skin— oh, I know the signs! It would be madness for
you to ride in this rain—" with each phrase he approached a trifle,
delicately, on slippered feet.

"Let me feel your pulse a moment, lad," he said now, stretch-
ing out his hand again. Andrew beat it down with a gesture.

"Stop," he said, "I know you. The lot of you. You've plucked
me like a pigeon between you— you and your whory daughter
and your wife that hangs up servant girls by the thumbs. You
torturers. Come out, Caterina," he said, without turning his head.

The door in the wall opened, the Minorcan girl stepped into
the room. Dr. Gentian gazed at her for a moment. A tiny drop of
blood gathered on one of her wrists and fell. Andrew, looking

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Stephen Vincent Benet

at the Doctor, thought he seemed more like a Caesar than ever,
with the color out of his cheeks, but this time he knew the face.
It was no Julian or Augustan coin—it came of a later mintage—
the silver was debased— the lids of the eyes grown heavy. Caligula
at the Games staring down at a bloody sand, where something
moved and cried— Tiberius killing flies like so many black slaves
at the window of his villa above the cold, star-amethyst of the
sea ...

The Minorcan girl shut the door slowly behind her. She held
out her bloody wrists. She did not speak.

"So," said Dr. Gentian, sucking his breath in. Then, without
warning, he sprang for the side of the fireplace and pulled at the
bell-cord furiously. The hammer of Andrew's pistol fell. The
fire sparked in the flint but that was all. He remembered looking
at the pistol, years ago, and thinking it should be reprimed.

"Oh, Christ," said Andrew, with a sob, and leaped forward,
throwing the pistol aside. He heard the Minorcan girl cry out.
Then a flare like the sudden flare and extinction of a puff of red
fire lit the base of his brain for a moment and was succeeded by
sparkling darkness.

When he roused, his head felt huge, and as if it would split
apart like a cut orange at the slightest movement. He was propped
in a corner with his hands bound behind his back and Mr. Cave
was standing over him with a gorged, pleased look on his face.

"He has a skull," said Mr. Cave, turning away from him to the
Doctor, who seemed engaged in washing his hands in a little
basin, "I couldn't use my right hand, even so— by God, all the
time you were bandaging him, I thought you were wasting lint."
Andrew noticed now that Mr. Cave carried his right arm in a
sling. Dully, he wondered why.

"You were admirably prompt, Mr. Cave," said the Doctor,
aloofly, drying his hands, "I must thank you. I confess, I have
seldom known you so prompt before."

Mr. Cave's face grew sullen. "We were looking for the Minor-
can piece," he said, "I thought she might have come down your
stair. I heard you pull at the bell as I got to the door."

"A fortunate coincidence," said Dr. Gentian reflectively. "And
yet— in future, Mr. Cave— unless by my invitation—"

"I wouldn't have used your damn staircase tonight," said Mr.
Cave, flushing, "but I thought— as long as she'd broken away—"

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Spanish Bayonet

"Quite right," purred the merry Doctor. "You are always
right, Mr. Cave."

"What have you done with her?" said Andrew, thickly. His
senses were returning, he felt on the point of vomiting from the
warm, hike, jellyish taste of blood in his mouth.

The Doctor eyed him with his head cocked on one side, like
a bird.

"Do not vex your mind unduly, Andrew," he said. "Your
trollop has gone back to her room. She will doubtless undergo a
little discipline in the morning, but that is all. I shall not even put
her back in the fields."

"May God damn your soul in hell," said Andrew, retching.
"If I could only get loose—"

"You would merely do yourself an injury," said Dr. Gentian
briskly. He turned. "You sent for the soldiers, Mr. Cave?"

"Yes, str," Mr. Cave grinned. "They'll have work to do for
once."

"Ah, yes," said the Doctor. "By the way—" He picked up an
object from the table, daintily and came over to Andrew, holding
it at fingers' length. "Do you recognize this, my boy?"

Andrew stared at the object. It was the knife he had given
Sebastian, but now there were rusty stains along the blade.

"Yes. It's my knife," he said. He was about to add that it had
not been his for three months, but did not because each word
he uttered was a stab in his head.

"Thank you," said the Doctor, "that is very satisfactory. You
see, Andrew, your Minorcan friend, Zafortezas, happened to stab
poor Mr. Cave in the arm with that knife a few hours ago. A
flesh-wound only, fortunately. Your knife. Curious. And the same
evening, you, for some inexplicable reason, attempt to murder me
with a pistol. It begins to look like a plot, Andrew—it begins to
look like a plot"— and he shook his head sorrowfully, while his
eyes danced with little points of light.

"You—" said Andrew, raging impotently.

"Yes, Andrew. A plot to take my plantation from me. Ah,
Andrew, Andrew, I wouldn't have believed it of you," he said.

Andrew was silent, feeling unmanly tears of weak fury prick
at his eyes. Then he thought of something.

"I appeal to the governor," he said.

"Inadvisable," said Dr. Gentian. "The governor may not be

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my friend— but I doubt if he would give much weight to any
appeal from a Northern rebel."

"Rebel?" said Andrew, dizzily.

"Rebel. Oh, I forgot— you have not had your mail. Well, you
may take it to jail with you, and read it there. Yes, Andrew— the
Northern Colonies are in revolt. There's been blood spilt—" He
tossed a packet of letters into Andrew's lap. "Most interesting
—especially the one from your brother. He seems to be deeply
involved in the rebellion. Your father is greatly concerned."

Andrew was struck dumb. So it had come at last. He saw his
brother Lucius firing at a man in a red coat— his father sitting at
his desk in the home on Wall Street with a newspaper crumpled
before him and his eyes looking into a darkness— and felt, for a
bitter moment, that he himself was the most futile person alive.

"When did it happen?" he said.

"In April," Dr. Gentian smiled, "at a place called Lexington
—and Concord— near Boston, aren't they? They say the colonials
ran like hares."

"You lie," said Andrew, with an intensity that surprised him.
"They wouldn't run before a parcel of lobsterbacks."

"No?" said Dr. Gentian. He smiled again. "You will note, Mr.
Cave, that our friend has just insulted the entire British army

172 tOtO."

"I'll note it," said Mr. Cave, greedily, "I'll remember it."

A knock came at the door.

"There, sir," said Mr. Cave, "there are our lobsterbacks now."

He opened the door. Three soldiers headed by a corporal
marched into the room and grounded arms. Andrew thought
tiredly that they looked like disgruntled footmen in their drag-
gled uniforms. The corporal's face was still puffy with sleep. By
some trick of mind he remembered his first tour of inspection
when they had passed the tiny guardhouse near the wharves and
Dr. Gentian had jested about his military forces. There were only
eight men at the post— where were the other five? It seemed in-
appropriate that they should not join in this nightmare joke of
arresting him as a murderer and a rebel.

The corporal was a decent fellow— he had often given him
tobacco. But tonight his face was as stiff and wooden as a face
carved on the bowl of a pipe. It betrayed not the slightest sign
that he had ever seen Andrew before. All soldiers were like that—

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they came out of a giant toy-box and turned into flat pieces of
painted wood whenever someone spoke to them with a frog in
his throat. He looked at the corporal's feet accusingly— they
should be glued into a little green stand. Also, it was thoughtless
of Dr. Gentian to leave his soldiers out in the rain. They would
have to be repainted, tomorrow, clumsily, with sticky stuff that
came off on your tongue when you licked the brush. Presently
he would get up and push the corporal in the chest— then the
corporal would totter on his stand and fall in one piece against
the nearest private, and all three of them would clatter to the
floor with a woodeny sound, because they were only toys, and
this was a dream. Dr. Gentian was saying something.

"Put him in the cell with the Minorcan," he was saying. "They
are both concerned in the attempt to assassinate Mr. Cave and
myself and capture the colony. In addition, this young man is
strongly suspected of being in league with the rebellion in the
Northern Colonies. Seditious newspapers have been found in his
room and his brother is a prime-mover in the revolt. He will be
transferred to St. Augustine later, for trial. The charge is treason
and attempted murder. Very well, corporal. Take charge of the
prisoner."

"Get him up on his feet," said the corporal in a voice of
board. "Can he walk? All right— bring him along between you.'*

They passed by the great main staircase on their way to the
door, and Andrew, turning his head caught a glimpse of Sparta
Gentian. She was standing half up the stairway, leaning on the
rail, the shawl with the vivid flowers on it wrapped around her.
Their eyes met for an instant. As she looked at him a slow smile
widened on her mouth and her eyes began to burn. Then she
leaned forward deliberately and spat at him from the stair.

"Damn the woman— she's spit on my coat," grumbled the
private on Andrew's right as they went out of the door.

"Less talk there, you," said the corporal ahead. "Shut your
mouth and pretend you're a duck— it's raining like bloody hell."

2.

There was darkness and the smell of damp stone and rotten
mold— things ran about in the darkness on light, innumerable feet.
The air was the air of a cellar that has been built underneath a

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Stephen Vincent Benet

well. For a moment Andrew was oddly reminded of the dairy-
house on the country place that bordered the Boston road— cool
even in lion-colored August with the coolness of slabs of stone
buried deep in the ground. He was a tanned little boy in knee-
breeches with flushed cheeks and damp hair, standing before a
gleaming pan on a table and stretching out a stealthy finger
through the pleasant gloom to dabble its tip in the risen cream,
thick and yellow as daffodil-petals clotted together. Through the
deep, barred window Summer came and the smell of it, the
smell of heat and harvest and grain bursting out of the ear. Then
he remembered. The little boy and the cool dairy belonged to
another life which some stranger had lived in a void. This was
the pit of oppression and he would lie in it like a truss of dis-
carded hay till they took him out to hang him to an orange-tree
in the bright morning, while Spanish ladies looked out from be-
hind black fans from the jutting balconies of old houses in St.
Augustine, and a curly-haired drummer-boy rattled out a dead
march and then, for an instant, silenced his drum.

He moved forward unsteadily, in the darkness. "Sebastian?" he
called querulously, "Sebastian? "

There was a stir in a corner.

"I am here, my friend," said a disembodied voice.

"Have they hurt you much, Sebastian?"

"The knife slipped," said the voice in answer. "He was too
quick. The knife slipped in my hand." Then it was silent and
tne running things resumed their activities.

Andrew felt his way over to the corner. His outstretched hand
touched a shoulder that winced beneath the touch.

"Have they hurt you much?" he said again.

"No," said Sebastian very bitterly. Andrew's eyes were grow-
ing accustomed to the blackness— now he saw the blur of a face.
"I am well enough. But the knife was dedicated— it should not
have slipped when I struck."

"I fired at him point-blank," said Andrew sitting down in a
puddle. "But the priming was wet. Then they hit me over the
head."

"You should have had a silver bullet," said Sebastian. "People
like that are not killed with steel or lead."

"I will have a silver bullet next time," said Andrew, and fell
silent. The two friends sat together in the dark for some time

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Spanish Bayonet

without saying anything more. Both were gazing into the shadow
that encompassed them and Andrew's hand lay lightly on Sebas-
tian's shoulder. There seemed little need of speech between them
at the moment—each knew well enough what the other felt and
thought. When Andrew had first entered this mildewed night, he
had been curious to hear Sebastian's story and eager to tell his
own. Now he felt as if both had been told and judged and found
unimportant. There were only three things left of any impor-
tance, an ache in the skull, a darkness before the eyes, and the
quick sound of scuttling feet in the other corners of the room.

After a while, however, Andrew spoke.

"Do you think there'll be a next time, Sebastian?" he said,
heavily.

"Who knows?" said Sebastian. "We are always between God's
fingers— now no less than ever."

At any other time the words would have struck Andrew as
insufferably bigoted and submissive. Now they seemed to him
what they were, a calm statement of fact. To Sebastian God was
a visible and tangible presence— therefore He was here, in this pit,
no more so and no less than He was everywhere. He was with the
soldiers in the guardroom, also, as they drank out of empty cups
and cut at toy food that stuck to its plate. He was with Dr. Gen-
tian in his study when devils hatched in the fire. No sin could
avert that scrutiny, no blasphemy or righteousness deter its pene-
tration by the width of a hair. When the time came for judgment,
they should all be judged— meanwhile it behooved them to act
according to their lights, for, within their limits of flesh, they
were free to do good or evil. God had bound them all with a
light, indivisible cord— when He wished, He could gather them
up and count them like the buttons on Peggy's button string.
In the meantime, He might never lift a finger to avert a present
anguish— for so are martyrs left without justification.

Andrew wished that he could think of God like that, but he
could not. To him God was something vague to pray to, for
happiness or against the approach of pain— something which
might be there. God was a cushioned pew and a prayer-book and
a clergyman in robes as opposed to a hard pew and a long hymn
and a preacher in a black Geneva gown. He had never thought
much about God except as a superior kind of Archbishop of
Canterbury who sat on a cloud and looked at Papists sternly. But

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Stephen Vincent Benet

Sebastian was a Papist—and Sebastian had taken God in his mouth
—and God was with him now. It was very strange and just a little
unfair.

"They say I'm a traitor," he said idly. "They say the Northern
colonies have revolted and there was a fight between our men and
the soldiers— and my brother was in it, so I must be a traitor, too."

"When the ass is spurred too hard it tries to kick off its rider,"
said Sebastian, who had proverbs in his blood. "Are you for
the rider or the ass?"

"I don't know," said Andrew, puzzled. "My house is divided.
I should have thought more about it before. I know my father
must be for the King."

"Then you must be for the King," said Sebastian, with Latin
respect for paternal authority. "It is ugly when a cause divides
son and father— even a good cause."

"I don't know," said Andrew again. "It doesn't seem real yet."
Again he saw the dim picture of his brother aiming a musket at
a toy-soldier corporal— the picture was fantastic— it could not
have occurred. "I can't believe they're really fighting," he added,
"I can't. The ministry has passed some bad laws, of course— but
Hancock and Adams— who'd ever fight for them?"

"Once men have started to fight, they forget what set them
on," Sebastian said. "It is like a game of ball— the ball is nothing
—the thing is to throw the ball so it counts for your side. Those
who watch the game see better than the players. Only, in war,
you cannot stand off and watch the game."

"I don't want to fight the King's soldiers, though," said
Andrew. "Why should I? And I certainly can't imagine fighting
Lucius."

"You will have to do one or the other," said Sebastian, placidly.
"But the winning side is always hard to tell."

"Not this time," said Andrew, feeling his tongue grow curi-
ously bitter. "If there really is a revolt, they'll put it down as they
put down the Pretender at Culloden. Butcher Cumberland. They
have a trained army. We have nothing. I mean the Colonials have
nothing," he added hastily.

"God sometimes gets tired of the man on the ass," said Sebas-
tian. "If I didn't think that, I would strangle myself here with my
own hands."

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"Perhaps," said Andrew, considering. "But if I were betting, I
should bet on the man."

"You have already bet on the ass, my friend," said Sebastian,
with a chuckle. "If you had not, you would not be here."

His shoulder was withdrawn from beneath Andrew's hand. He
turned over on his side. "I have some letters from home," mut-
tered Andrew, "I can tell better when I read them— is there ever
any light in this place, Sebastian?"

"A little, in the morning. I remember when we first made this
cellar, I wondered why it was dug so deep." He was silent.
Andrew heard him begin to breathe deeply and quietly.

"What's the matter, Sebastian— are you going to sleep?"

"Why not?" said a drowsy voice, "I may dream my knife
did not slip after all."

"I wonder if my head will come off, if I try to sleep," said
Andrew to himself. "I suppose it won't, though it feels like it."
He stretched himself out on the straw and shut his eyes. "But
listen, Sebastian," he said, after a long pause, "do you really be-
lieve God is here in prison with us, in this room?" He waited, but
there was no answer. Then he sighed and arranged himself a little
more comfortably, hoping the things that ran would not scamper
over him much, once he was quiet. In the morning, they could
plan, perhaps— not now— the thick stupor of fatigue rocked him
in a cradle of lead. It seemed odd that the dawn which would
wash the tiny window above him with pale waters of light to-
morrow was the very same colored dawn that should have found
him dozing in Sparta Gentian's bed, with her hair spread over
their pillow like a scarf of drawn gold.

3-

As Sebastian had said, light came to their habitation in the
morning— a slanting, shallow column, but enough to enable
Andrew to read his letters. Also they had been given fresh water
and a dish of boiled rice. The corporal had brought them these,
but had refused to answer any questions. Andrew had asked for a
razor, which was, of course, denied.

"I never saw them hang a fellow with a beard," the corporal

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Stephen Vincent Benet

remarked judicially after the request. "But then I haven't seen
much hanging." His mouth was sad. "When they hung the great
pirates at Execution Dock I was as near to it as could be, but
somebody had to stay with Gramfer. Crippled all up he was, and
twice he'd fallen in the fire with nobody by. Well, I was the
youngest and the least account, so I didn't see it. They say Kidd
made a fine show. My father saw him," he added, with some
pride. "Twirled he did and kicked for a while. Well, 'tis all in
the drop, they say— a proper drop and 'tis over as soon as bite
your nails," he concluded cheerfully and disappeared.

Andrew could not hate the man for his graveyard remarks—
his face was as honest and foolish as the face of a giant pumpkin.
But he felt his neck tenderly for a moment after the fellow had
gone.

Now Sebastian was finishing the boiled rice, and he was read-
ing the last of his letters. From them he got anxiety and excite-
ment but little solace. Lexington— Concord— he tried to remember
Lexington— he had passed through it once on a memorable trip
to Boston with his father and Lucius. He remembered the leathery
smell of the coach and how his father had gone to sleep with a
red silk handkerchief over his face distinctly enough, but Lex-
ington itself eluded him. A blur of trees— a village green where
a goose waddled and stretched out its neck to hiss as a pinafored
little girl— a white church with a steeple— the open door of
a blacksmith shop where a man in a leather apron spat upon a
fiery horseshoe— these scraps were all he could dredge up from
the ragbag of memory. He stitched them into a town, in no way
different from a dozen other little Massachusetts towns through
which their coach had rolled, and yet now, somehow, very
different. A month ago, when morning was only half-awake and
the shadows lay the wrong way, men had died on that dim grass,
awkwardly, unexpectedly— the brimstone smell of burnt powder
had drifted in through the windows of the white church and
the open door of the smithy— where the goose had waddled the
green, bullets had journeyed as casually, with much the same
hissing sound. He saw a plump woman with a queer white face
stand at the foot of a stairway, listening, and his brother, the
macaroni with two watches, dandy no longer but dirty and
smooched, with a cut on his cheek, hiding behind a wall to fire

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Spanish Bayonet

at broken red dots running over a bridge. And still he could not
comprehend.

"Disperse ye Rebels says He but we were Not for Dispersing
. . . So, as I say, We Chast them till they met with their Other
Force . . . Lord Percy's it is Said ... I have a Fine Blister on Both
my Feet because of it and a better prospect of Hanging than
Ever I had but oh Andrew you should have Seen the S\vcet Way
they Ran ..."

That was Lucius' letter. So no more at Present from Yr. Bro.
It was odd to think of Lucius, the correct, the mannered, help-
ing Massachusetts bumpkins to hunt a lord like a fox.

One thine*, however, stood out plainly. His father was a broken
man. Suspected by both sides, the invisible swordsman had forced
him to the wall at last. The handwriting in his last epistle was
shaky arid old— the ends of the letters trailed off feebly as if it
had been too great a care to finish them aright. "I have had a
Stroke, my dear Sonn, and though they say 'Twas not the True
Apoplexy, yr. Mother is greatly Concerned." Andrew felt pain
tear at his heart, ragged and sharp. Pain and satire, for the words
were followed by a formal blessing "Upon your Projected Mar-
riage." For an instant Andrew wished, humanly enough, that
he had never found Sparta out. His father seemed to set such
store by the fact that his younger son, at least, was safe from
the worries that beset himself. The mood was succeeded by one
quite as youthful though more practical. He started up. He must
get back to New York at once— see his father— find out the truth
of the quarrel between colonies and King. His head was better
now and his fever, queerly enough, quite gone. He \vas almost
at the door before he remembered. Then he put his head in his
hands and groaned aloud.

He felt Sebastian touch him on the arm. "Come my friend,"
said a voice, "sorrow eases the .heart, but we have no time for it
now. There must be a way out of this hole— the rats come in and
go out, and between us we have at least as much sagacity as a
rat."

It was later. The slanting column of light through the window
had almost disappeared. They had searched the boundaries of
their prison, floors and walls, as far as their hands could reach,
like misers looking for a penny, and still they had found nothing

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Stephen Vincent Benet

to aid their escape. Two crannies through which rats could pass,
a litter of soiled straw tossed over and over— that was all. Andrew
thought of the tools hanging from the bench of the carpenter's
shop by the wharf with a hopeless longing. He would have given
any dubious immortality for the little file down by the end.

"We must think of some way to get the soldier in here and
knock him on the head," said Sebastian, rising from his knees
after a last picking over of the straw. "We cannot take the wall
apart with our fingernails."

"Even if we did, though . . ." said Andrew.

"Yes," said Sebastian, "there's only one way out and that's
through the guardroom. But it is our only chance."

"Wait a minute," said Andrew. He took up the dish and the
pitcher that had held their breakfast and stared at them 'with
greedy searching eyes.

"I thought of that," said Sebastian. He tapped the dish,
"Wood," the pitcher, "Clay." "Even if we broke the pitcher, the
pieces would crumble on the stone."

"There must be something, somewhere," said Andrew, against
reason. Again his eyes slowly traversed the familiar walls of the
room from ceiling to floor. Then he stiffened all over like a dog
coming to point. High up in the wall and hardly visible in the
gloom, beyond the reach of their hands, was a large, projecting
nail.

"Get up on my shoulders, Sebastian— there is our tool," he said,
his voice shaken as if he had just risen from deep water with a
sea-pearl in his hand.

It took an hour or so to work the nail loose 'from the wall.
When they had it down at last, it proved bent and rusty but they
gloated over it with a solemn joy.

"Now," said Sebastian, practically, "where?" and he looked
around him.

"We could never tunnel through from below in time," said
Andrew. "That stone beneath the window— can you reach it,
if you stand on my shoulders again?"

"I can just reach up to the middle of the bar," said Sebastian,
after he had tried.

"Sentry outside?"

Sebastian peered cautiously, "I don't see one. But there may
£e one. There's a ditch, and a little rise beyond it."

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"Thank God the light's gone away. He'd hardly see us, any-
how, in the darkness— and we'll just have to chance being heard.
Is the window too small?"

"Yes. Even if we could cut the bar."

"Well then," said Andrew, gritting his teeth and wishing
Sebastian weighed less. "We'll have to take out the stone."

They spelled each other, all afternoon, at short intervals, the
one who was' below listening for the footsteps of the guard. The
nail grew dull— then sharp again as it filed itself against the stone
—then dull once more. Once it almost broke in two and once
they were nearly caught by the unexpected return of the cor-
poral soon after he had brought them a scant and nasty dinner.
It was hard, exhausting work— the mortar at which they picked
was only a little less indurate than the stones it cemented and
the man who worked had to support himself with one hand
against the wall while his human stepladder suffered rigid agonies
in back and loins. When they were too beaten with fatigue to
work any more it seemed to them as if they had accomplished
as little as a pair of caterpillars gnawing blindly at the sides of
an iron box, but at least a beginning had been made. They dis-
guised their work with a paste of mud and spittle and rested
achingly.

The next day was the same, and the next—a fever of labor in
the dark to the accompaniment of the slight rasp of the worn
nail against the stone— a driving of cramped, rebellious muscles
to the same monotonous, tiny task. Pick, pick, pick, went the
sound of the nail— pick, pick, pick. The sound wore a shallow
groove in Andrew's mind. He could hear it continue interminably
through the uneasy veil of sleep and his fingers twitched me-
chanically as if they still held the nail.

Pride and hope alike were gone, the body was gone, of the
body only the hands remained, picking, picking unendingly
like clumsy thieves at the lock of a closed door. He had long ago
ceased to be Andrew Beard. He was a smoke, a shadow, that
crawled up upon another shadow's shoulders in obliterated
gloom, to pick, pick, pick with a shadowy fang at a deepening
crack between two blocks of darkness, Sometimes it was the
black, dully-gleaming heart of Night itself at which he dug, and
he half-expected his nail at any moment to slip through some

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Stephen Vincent Benet

crack in heaven and shatter itself to bits against the points of a
star.

Why he did what he was doing, he no longer remembered.
The thought of any actual escape was buried deep under tiny
crumbs of mortar and flakes of iron-rust. He felt at times that if
some one had opened the door and told him he was free, he
would merely have stared and grunted and returned to the corner
beneath the window to bend his back again like a burdened ass
while Sebastian stood upon it and nibbled at a coffin of coquina
somewhere above him, for ages, with that slight, rasping sound
till his fingers refused their office and it was time for Andrew
to crawl up and nibble in his turn.

Toward mid-evening of the third day, the stone could be
loosened a little. If both had been able to get any purchase on
it, at the same time, they might have been able to wrench it
awray from the bar which was cemented into it from above.
As it was the stone would only give one useless and exasperating
fraction of an inch, and the problem of the bar remained. The
bar, too, was harder to get at, and they could hardly file it with
what was left of the nail.

"Is it deep sunk, do you think, Sebastian? " said Andrew, lying
dead on the floor after a straining and unsuccessful attempt to
tear the stone out of the wall by main force.

"I think so," said Sebastian wearily. "We shall have to pick the
mortar out of its socket and bend it up somehow. Then, perhaps,
the stone wrill loosen."

"I wish I had your patience," said Andrew. "Myself, I think
we shall die before we pick out that mortar."

He rose. "Make me a back, Sebastian. I'll see if I can reach it."

He clung with one hand to the sill and reached the other up
awkwardly to pick at the mortar that held the bar. His hand was
unsteady with fatigue and the stroke went wild. The nail slipped,
his knuckles rapped on the stone. His fingers jerked apart me-
chanically at the pain, the nail flew out, hopped between the
bars and dropped over the outer edge of the window sill. He
heard it clink on a stone and felt sick and old. He tried to reach
over through the bars, but the window opening was deep and
narrow— from liis cramped position he could just put his hand
out over the outer edge. There was a ditch beyond, a couple

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of feet in depth, where the nail had fallen. Try as he might he
could not reach to the bottom of that ditch.

His muscles gave way. He slid down.

"Kill me, Sebastian/' he gasped, "I have lost the nail," and fell
in a heap on the floor.

"We must find another nail," said Sebastian, after a long silence,
but even as he spoke both knew that there was no other nail.

"Perhaps, if we rest for a while, we will be able to move the
stone without it," said Andrew, but his voice was entirely with-
out hope. The stone had come to have a personality to them
both in the hours they had labored upon it. At times they cursed
it in hushed voices as one curses an ungrateful woman— at other
times they pled with it for a sulky god. Now it had turned into
a god forever, a dumb god with a broad, flat, roughened, eyeless
face, that sat across the door of life like a plummet of lead, and
blocked it, and would not move away.

"We will have to kill the guard after all," said Sebastian, tone-
lessly. "Kill him somehow and chance the rest." His voice showed
the utter desperation of the expedient.

"Stone walls do no-ot a pri-son make. Nor i-ron BARS a
c-a-g-e-" giggled Andrew suddenly. "That's funny, isn't it,
Sebastian? I remember my mother used to sing that— she had a
good voice. But the man who wrote the song was a liar all the
same. Oh, wasn't he a liar, Sebastian—" he continued, half-
hysterically.

"Put me on your shoulders, Andrew," said the other, quietly.
"My arm is a little longer than yours— perhaps I can reach it."

Andrew gulped, recovered his wits, and started to obey. But
just as he bent his back, something rattled on the floor.

They looked at each other incredulously, holding their breath
—two hunched images of shadow staring at each other intently
like apes in a cage. There was another tiny rattle on the floor.
Then Andrew felt a pebble strike on his cheek.

"Window, Sebastian," he said fiercely, while hope grew up in
his mind like a winter-rose.

It seemed to him that he stood for hours with Sebastian's feet
digging into his shoulders while Sebastian whispered hurriedly
in Mahonese to another whisper, swift and gentle as the rustle of
a green leaf on a budded tree. Then at last Sebastian was down
and talking in fierce, little, jerky phrases.

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Stephen Vincent Benet

"Caterina," he said. "She managed to get away. There's a sentry
but he's a fool. Sleeps. Oh, you English— you think you can
watch a rathole with a lazy cat. Boat, by the old wharf. To-
morrow night. They'll think we've gone by land. She'll be at the
boat. Your boy helped. Carlos. He says you gave him a dollar.
He's very grateful."

"What about the nail?" said Andrew, still tormented by its loss.

"We have better than nails now," said Sebastian, luxuriously.
He opened his hand and showed Andrew a thin glass bottle full
of yellow liquid. He shook it lovingly. It rattled. "Files," he said
huskily. "Two files. And oil to quiet them."

Andrew began to laugh soundlessly— a painful laughter that
racked the pit of his stomach. Then he thought of something else,
and his laughter stopped.

"What did they do to her?" he said, trembling.

"Caterina? They whipped her, that next morning. That's why
she couldn't come before. Even now—" He stretched out his
arms. The slow roll of his voice filled the chamber like the beat-
ing of an iron heart. "Oh, Christ on the Cross—" he prayed. "Oh,
Christ on the Cross— You have given us a way to the air— Give us
vengeance too— if only a little— a little—" He broke off. "We must
rest for a while," he said more naturally. "Even with the bar
cut through we will need all our strength for the stone."

The bar was all but cut through— the cut plastered over and
concealed. Then they had to wait. They had rested longer than
they had intended before starting the work, sinking down into a
black, murmuring bog of sleep as soon as their heads touched the
floor, and when the task was nearly done, the air beyond the win-
dow had changed, and, behind dark gauzes, yellow dawn began to
stir faintly, like a bird still hidden in the egg. After that, they
could sleep again for a while, but not as they had slept before.
They were too tense, the bog refused to receive them, they
napped in uneasy snatches like dogs before a hunt. Andrew,
waking a dozen times, each time glowered up at the window and
was angry to see how slowly the first pale stiletto of light broad-
ened into a yellow sword.

When the corporal brought their breakfast they were both

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broad awake and vfery restless. They tried to hold him in talk
to make the minutes pass but he was surly and would only mutter
in general terms against sergeants who cheated honest men out of
their pay with dice that had a spell on them.

"By God," he growled, "if both of you weren't such traitors,
Td change you a bottle of Augustine rum for the promise of a
couple of knucklebones after you were hanged. They say a
hanged man's knucklebones make wizardy dice, if he's strung
up in the natural course of crime— but being traitors, yours
wouldn't serve most likely— 'tis just my luck— I never played
jailer before except on a black fellow that stole the Governor's
wig for a heathen idol in Jamaica and he was a poor pagan that
didn't leave me as much as a copper ear-ring. I was born with a
caul, too, but I've never had any luck from it. When I was
christened parson opened the book at the wrong place and
started blazing away at the Burial Service most savagely before
a' could be halted and it's shadowed me ever since. I can feel the
Resurrection and the Life stuck in my throat at night like a slice
of apple— You're lucky to be decently hanged, you are, there's
some more grievous and judgmatical death in store for me, and
it rises my dinner in me to have to think of it—" So he mourned
himself away, leaving them alone with a vast desert of time.

The light grew, the hours dragged, they could not keep their
eyes from the bar and the stone. They would talk to each other
feverishly for a while and then, without intention, fall suddenly
into a staring silence. Andrew found at last that he was talking to,
himself under breath. "Night," he was murmuring. "Night. Oh
lentCj Icnte, currite, nodes equi—" no, that was the wrong quota-
tion, that asked night's coursers to slacken their pace.

"What time do you suppose it is, Sebastian?" he said for the
twentieth time.

"We must have hours yet," said Sebastian. Andrew had ex-
pected the answer, but he sighed all the same. He looked at
the bar again. To the eyes of both the crack in it had grown,
all through the morning. Now it yawned— a blunt, metal mouth,
insecurely stuffed with mud and straw. It seemed impossible that
the stupidest of jailers should not detect it at a glance.

"Sebastian, do you think if—-" began Andrew, and stopped him-
self. He must keep his eyes from the bar— if he did not something
would make him leap up and swing from it chattering like a

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monkey. For a moment he half-wished the corporal had seen the
crack and suspected. Anything was better than this waiting.
Then he made a sort or formless prayer to anything which
might be listening not to pay the slightest attention to his wish.

There were footsteps in the corridor—coming nearer. Andrew
felt his body grow taut— glancing over at Sebastian he saw that
he too was rigid. His wish had been granted. They were found
out. They were coming to take them to some other cell, deep
down, where even a file would be of no use. They were coming
to hang them, now, while the light still held and the air was
sweet.

The door opened. The corporal was there with two other
men.

"You're wanted,'' he said, jerking his thumb at Andrew. "No—
not you— him," as Sebastian started to rise.

Andrew got up slowly, feeling sweat on his palms. Sebastian
and he were to be separated— ironed perhaps. Either step would be
fatal to both, now. Why hadn't they chanced it last night?

"Who wants me?" he said, licking his mouth.

"You're wanted," said the corporal, grinning. "Come on now—
shake a leg."

"Adios, amigo" murmured Andrew stiffly as he passed Sebas-
tian. They touched hands.

"Come on now," said the corporal impatiently, "last Wills
and Testaments not executed at this shop without longer notice."

"Well, Andrew," said Dr. Gentian, pleasantly, "I am sorry to
see you so unkempt. I wish I could lend you a razor. When I
was in prison at Poona," he continued reflectively, rubbing his
chin, "I managed to shave with a broken cowrie-shell. But it was
a painful expedient, at best. I should not advise its imitation,
though it passes the time as well as trying to tame a rat. I wonder
at the patience of those men who find prison-rats so easy to tame.
Mine were savage little beasts— Orpheus himself could not have
made them affable." He broke off, tracing a little pattern with
his right thumb in the silver scrollwork on the butt of Andrew's
pistol.

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The two were alone— the soldiers had retired outside the door.
Andrew, through lowered lids calculated the distance between
them and the possibility of springing across the table and getting
that firm throat between his hands before the balanced fore-
finger could pull the trigger.

"I wouldn't," said the doctor, smiling. "This priming happens
to be dry and— let me compliment you on your taste in small-
arms, Andrew. You may not have observed it, but this particular
pistol is a weapon of delightful precision. I experimented with
it this morning upon a humming-bird— the poor thing was blown
into feathers at twenty paces."

"What do you want with me?" said Andrew, heavily. His
eyes were still blinking with the unaccustomed plenty of day-
light in this windowed room. He had almost forgotten there were
such rooms, he realized, now— and realized too, distastefully, the
scarecrow figure he must cut before the immaculate Doctor. His
clothes were ragged and foul— dirty stubble covered his face-
he had not been clean for days. His eyes were furtive— his body
had a prison smell to it— when he walked, he walked like a
prisoner, with a heavy, shuffling step. In a tale, such tiny things
would not matter to the heroic captive— it was monstrously un-
fair that they should matter now.

"I wanted to see you, Andrew," said the Doctor, softly, "and
now that I have, I confess myself satisfied."

Andrew hardly heard him— his mind was busy with a different
problem. "For God's sake tell them to give me a clean shirt, you
devil!" he burst out suddenly, and instantly felt ashamed.

The Doctor laughed. "Your request is quaintly put," he said,
with enjoyment, "but I'll grant it. You shall have a clean shirt
—yes, Andrew— and soap and a razor— and go wherever you wish.
For a price, of course," he added, tracing his pattern.

Andrew had straightened up at the first of his words. Now
his shoulders sagged again.

"There would be," he said, flatly. "No."

"You haven't heard my terms yet," said the Doctor. "I ask
very little. Only a lapse of memory." He looked at Andrew but
Andrew did not reply.

"I do not even ask you to go on with your projected mar-
riage." He continued, "A son-in-law," his thumb crept along a

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tiny silver scroll, "whose brother is— disaffected— whose father-
will be bankrupt— would hardly fit with my plans. All I ask is—
seven days forgotten. Completely. Your word on it. Then you're
free."

"Why?" said Andrew, bluntly. "Why not hang me out of
hand at once?"

"Oh— call it a whim— a vagary," said the Doctor with masked
eyes, "I've always rather loved f ools— after my own fashion. And
then— I'll be frank enough— trying you in Augustine would be
such a tedious business— I could carry it through— don't mistake
me— but there might be embarrassing questions. I'd rather have
your word."

"Suppose I broke my word?"

"To be frank," said the Doctor, "I do not care very greatly
what you do— out of the Floridas. Till then— you would sign a—
confession— I have drawn up. You could have it back— in time."

"Confession of what?" said Andrew.

"Oh— not too much," said the Doctor, pursing his lips. "Dis-
loyalty, chiefly— an attempt on my daughter's honor, perhaps-
just enough to discredit you. I assure you I should use it with
the greatest reluctance," and, strangely enough, Andrew thought
that he spoke the truth.

"Sebastian and Caterina?" he said.

The Doctor pondered. "You can have the girl," he said finally.
"I should regret it, but after all— Mrs. Gentian deserves considera-
tion. The man, no. I must keep discipline. But I might merely
send him to St. Augustine prison, then."

"What happens to him otherwise?" said Andrew, breathing.

"The currycomb," said the Doctor in a wisp of voice. "A dis-
tressing end."

Andrew looked at him.

"I should really advise against it," said the Doctor very softly,
with his forefinger alert. "You could not possibly reach me in
time. Besides, there are always the soldiers."

Andrew drew a long breath.

"And-I-?" he said.

"Oh, you would merely hang," said the Doctor, recovering
his cheerfulness. "Merely hang. You're young to hang, Andrew."

Andrew passed his hand over his eyes, trying to think. He

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could save Sebastian's life, Caterina's, his own. Sebastian was
patient and clever— even in the dungeons of St. Augustine he
might find some way of escape. Then they would all be saved.
The other way was death. He could refuse for himself, and die,
but he would not have to die in torment as Sebastian must.

For an instant he saw himself free, at the jail of a ship, with
Caterina at his side. Her hand was lightly on his, she was telling
him he had done well, her eyes were gentle. Cool as the fronds
of lilies floating on a hushed and evening pool, her fingers touched
his, and met, and somewhere, Sebastian was smiling at them both
from his dungeon . . .

His mind revolted from the mirage, smarting with shame and
self-disgust. Dr. Gentian was very adroit. He had put this thing
so subtly that he, Andrew, could not only save himself but
Caterina for himself and fool his mind into thinking he had acted
nobly. No one could accuse him if he did this— Sebastian would
not— his own spirit might for a while but it would grow sleepy—
a year from now, this present would be forgotten, buried under
a drifting red-and-yellow heap of leaf-brittle days like the skele-
ton of a rat, to crumble into earth and water and sun. And
Sebastian would be still in his dungeon— but perhaps Caterina and
he could buy him out somehow if he had not died . . .

The stone. The bar. The escape.

But it seemed impossible that they should really escape. Dr.
Gentian was too strong. He had been in prison himself— he would
not have left them there, together, unchained, without providing
against any escape. All the time that they had been gnawing in
the dark he had been outside the window, listening, smiling, till
he could no longer contain the mirth in his belly and went
slowly back to laugh at them aloud with the devils that lived
in the chimney of his study. Yes, he must have been doing that.

There was no use trying to bargain with him over Mr. Cave's
projected plan of revolt. He knew of that, too, undoubtedly—
and if, by some miracle, he did not, it offered the one slim chance
that, in the confusion of such an event, they might escape indeed.

Was he overrating Dr. Gentian's powers? Perhaps. But as he
stared at him now, with heavy eyes, he saw him as a man no
longer, not even a Caesar, but something inhuman, with the
transient powers of the inhuman over human stuff. An undying

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figure that walked from the East, with a cloud of flies above it,
and a gilt pomander in its hand.

"Aren't you ever afraid of hell?" he found himself saying,
queerly, with a catch in his voice. "I should think you'd be afraid
of hell."

The smile on Dr. Gentian's face became a rictus cut in ivory,
the muscles of the jaw stood out.

"Why this is hell, nor am I out of it," he quoted in a slow, dry
voice. " 'Think'st thou that I'— did you ever read Marlowe,
Andrew? The style is very impure— bombastic, even— he cannot
compare with Pope— but there are things in his Faustus which—"

He stopped. His mouth relaxed. But while he spoke, there
had been something in his face that Andrew had never expected
to see there— a turn of the mouth— a shape behind the eyes— some-
thing ruined and very lonely— a statue defaced— a barren bough
in the gale.

It passed. "Well?" said the easy voice.

Andrew looked at the floor. He was twenty-two. When you
were twenty-two, Death was something far-off that happened to
other people. It needn't happen to him for a long time.

What if the Minorcans were oppressed? They weren't actually
slaves. They got along. Some people, maybe, had to be oppressed.
It wasn't his quarrel.

Then he saw them, young and old, women and children, the
dead on the voyage, the dead in the first months of fever, the
priest swinging in his robes, the sallow boy, screaming, under
the currycomb. But it wasn't his quarrel.

There were two doors open. One meant life, and a clean shirt,
and Caterina's hand on his hand, by the rail of a ship, at night,
while the moon climbed up in heaven like a silver woman. The
other was death for all of them. He shut his eyes and chose death.

"No, I won't," he said, in a voice he was surprised to find so
even.

Dr. Gentian sighed. "I'm sorry," he said. "Dying is so waste-
ful. You can have twenty-four hours to think it over, Andrew. I
will see you again tomorrow, when they are up. Think it over.
Sergeant," he called and struck on a bell. "I hate to hang you,
Andrew— it will be a great nuisance. I had a parrot once that
amused me. I had to wring its neck. It is much the same. You
may take the prisoner back now, Sergeant, if you will."

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6.

"He gave me twenty-four hours," Andrew ended. He looked
at his friend.

"It is more than enough," said Sebastian. "We shall escape in
twelve."

Before the certitude of his tone the image of Dr. Gentian that
towered in Andrew's mind like a genie rising from a bottle in a
blue, magic fume, diminished gradually. He became what he
was, a man of great parts, whose knowledge of his own abilities
had swollen with power till it festered, and so spoiled a tyrant
instead of making a king. Seen so, he was no longer terrific or
even hateful, only beggared, as all men are beggared in one way
or another who seek from life a passion more intense than the
body can bear. He was a king in check— a torch inverted— a fire
that wasted itself against a column of salt— and as Andrew began
to perceive this, slowly and delicately as the slow lifting of a slab
of bronze from his breast, the fear of death passed from him and
left him composed. It would return, undoubtedly, but for this
moment, brier as the flight of a bird between tree and tree, it had
gone. He could smell the mignonette in his mother's garden.
Dr. Gentian could kill them both, but that was all he could do.

"What are you going to do, Sebastian, when we are free?"
he said casually, out of a strange peace.

"Tell the governor to free my people," said Sebastian. The
cool stone of peace had touched at his lips as well, he spoke with
the simplicity of a ghost. "When they are free—" he shrugged.
"Who knows? Life is long— there are many things to do before
the priest comes with his oil. If I had money I should like to buy
a fishing-boat— my father was a fisherman. I should like to marry,
too, and have a son. It is good to have a son to help you draw in
the nets. And you, my friend?"

"I shall go North," said Andrew. "Perhaps to help the ass you
spoke of kick off his rider— yes." It was the first time he had
definitely put the thought at the back of his mind into words.
He was astonished to find how rational it sounded. "After ali-
as long as they've called me a traitor—" he said, musingly. He
wondered if that were really what he would do. It was difficult
to see himself with a ragamuffin musket, presenting it at Lion
and Unicorn.

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Stephen Vincent Benet

Sebastian nodded. "I thought so," he said. "There are three
things one cannot run away from— war, love and death." His
voice held that indolent fatalism that has so often deceived the
North by its languid pride. "Sometime I should like to go back
to Minorca," he confessed. His eyes glittered. "This is a good
country, here, but it is not Fererias."

"Tell me about your island," said Andrew, childishly. He
settled himself in a corner to listen.

"You'd laugh at it, if you went there," said Sebastian. "It is
small and harsh and poor. But the people are friendly there.
My uncle lives in Mahon, if he has not died— he is a very friendly
and hospitable person. My aunt has copper pans in her kitchen,"
he continued, with some pride. "They tease her about being rich
—she is not— they came from her father who was a copper-smith
—but few of us have copper vessels, even in the town—" His
voice droned on, lulling Andrew into the content of a sleepy
child. It was now almost entirely dark in their cell, though out-
side the sun had not yet set. There would be hours still before
they would be safe in cutting through the rest of the bar, but
now Andrew did not care how many there were. The fear of
death no longer ran about with the rats in the darkness and he
was quite happy listening to the slow story of certain doings
in the family of a foreign copper-smith which could not pos-
sibly interest any person of gentility.

Dr. Gentian laid his book down with a sigh, and glanced at his
watch. He rose, and stood for a moment, observing how surely
and skilfully the petal of a flower grew in rose-colored silk upon
gauze, under the deft, shining strokes of his wife's embroidery
needle.

"That must tire your eyes, my dear— especially at night," he
said, with solicitude.

"I am never tired." She did not turn her head to answer. "Are
you going now?"

"Yes, my dear. I am going now. You need not wait up for
me. I shall not be back till late."

She made a knot in the silk. "You never believe me," she said,

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*Even if I told you, you were walking into a pitfall— you
wouldn't believe me."

He smiled. "I should merely think your natural concern for
my safety had overbalanced your excellent reason," he said.

"No doubt," she said wearily, her face still averted. "Well—
you can go, then. I shan't wait up."

"It matters to you still," he said, consideringly. "That seems
strange."

"Strange enough." Her eyes were fixed on her work. "You'd
be a clever man, Hilary, if you left well enough alone."

"A clever man never leaves well enough alone," he said and
smiled.

The silk thread broke in her fingers. "You're blind," she said.
"Blind and deaf. There's a shadow on your back tonight. But
you're deaf and blind. You only think of playing cat and mouse
with that boy."

"One must have games." The Doctor's tone was amused. "And
cat and mouse is an excellent game, for the cat."

"You'd better watch your daughter." She turned her face
now and looked at him.

"My dear!"

"I've told you. She and her lackey. They've been too quiet
these last days. Oh, well -go your road. But my Greeks talk to
me. There's a rat in the wall of this house, Hilary— a rat in the
wall-"

Her voice ceased. Her fingers busied themselves re-threading
the needle.

"I think you have the gift, tonight," he said quietly, regarding
her. "See for me, my dear."

His hand fell on her shoulder, light as a butterfly. She put it
off. "No," she said in a dry, thin voice. "You're wrong. I haven't
had the sight for years. If I had it tonight, would I use it? No."

"Not for me?" His mouth had honey in it.

"No." Her fingers were moving again, she seemed to have no
mind for anything but her silk. "Not for you."

He sighed. "Be consoled," he said. "I shan't live for ever. In-
deed, sometimes I wonder that I have been able to live this long."

"It would be like you to die first," she agreed, remorselessly.
A flash passed over her face. "I'd save you from that," she said,
with a prick of her needle.

Stephen Vincent Benet

He chuckled a little. "I believe you. I believe you, indeed.
But if something should— cripple me, for instance— just enough
-eh?"

She drew in a deep breath. "Some time," she said, huskily. "Soon
or late. The candle's not burnt to the wick yet. I can wait for it."

"Really, sometimes, one would think you believed in the fates,
my dear. If one didn't know you."

"I believe in waiting," she said, nodding her head. "Yes, I
believe in waiting."

His fingers twitched, momentarily. "I wish you'd see for me,"
he said.

She made no reply. He hesitated for a moment, oddly inde-
cisive. Then he looked at his watch again and turned toward
the door.

"Good night, my dear."

The second petal of the flower was half-completed, the needle
stitched on, the face was averted anew. "Good night," said the
dry, colorless voice. Dr. Gentian passed out of the room. With his
hand on the latch of the front door he hesitated for a second
time and threw a glance back up the stairs. Then he shook his
head impatiently, opened the door and went out.

As soon sas his footsteps had died away, Mrs. Gentian rose.
Very softly indeed, she climbed the stairs to the upper corridor
and paused, listening, outside the door of her daughter's room.
She scratched on the panel twice, gently— no sound replied.
"Sparta," she called in a low, sharp voice, waited, repeated the
call. The name fell into darkness and was absorbed, no echo
mocked it even. Mrs. Gentian laughed under her breath and
opened the door of the room. The light of her candle showed
it empty, the bed undisturbed. She nodded, as if in assent to
an unspoken query and stood in the doorway for a moment,
erect as an effigy, not seeming to notice that when her candle
guttered it shook flecks of hot wax on her dress. Then she shut
the door and went softly down the stairs again, returning to her
chair and her needlework. Her face seemed at once resolved and
satisfied, and, for a time, the pattern of her embroidery had
never grown more swiftly. Then, after a while, the pace of her
fingers slackened and stopped. The embroidery still lay in her
lap, but she worked at it no longer, though she remained sitting
in the chair, with folded hands and that curious expression on

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her face, her head bent a little forward, as if she were listening
for the wind to bring her a piece of long-expected news.

Meanwhile, Dr. Gentian was walking briskly down the road
to the guardhouse. He carried a light cane in one hand and was
humming to himself and now and then cutting little flourishes
in the air with his cane. The moon was up enough for him to
pick his way along the well known path without hesitation, while
his mind turned over one thing and another in its usual active
fashion. His wife's words had stirred him more than he cared to
admit and, not for the first time, he felt, with some annoyance,
that there was some quality in her which even he could only
master by snatches, unless she willed to have it so.

She was the only person he had ever met who did not sooner
or later betray himself or herself by talking too much. He had
taught her that trick of reticence, likely enough— but now it
seemed to him, uneasily, that the pupil was beginning to out-
strip her master. It must not be so— yet what could he do to
change it? He could not deal with her as he dealt with others—
from their first meeting he had thought of her as the living
symbol of his luck and the broadening of that vein of supersti-
tion which was his weakness, during these later years, had only
increased the feeling. The fierce passion that had first united
them was long extinguished, but her words still carried a cer-
tain weight of omen for him, and at times he came closer being
afraid of her than he ever had been of any merely human being.

He smiled a little, recalling certain events. What a sharp, wild,
dazzling creature she had been in her first youth— not fair in
Sparta's fashion, not fair at all in the way he consciously ad-
mired, but with a fire in her like the fire at the heart of his
emerald. Wooing her had been like wooing a tiger-cub— his mind
still bore the scars o/ it, for all its balance, as his body bore the
thin, seamed scar of the knife she had struck him with, long
ago, when she thought he looked too often at that dark little
Cypriote. For an instant his body felt young, and he saw, from a
tossing boat, a torch flaring at the mouth of a cave and a girl's
intense and eager face in the red gush of light.

She would not strike him with a knife again. That had been
in the days of their passion, and they and his youth were over.
Her love had taken a deal of killing, certainly. He felt that to be
unfortunate, honestly enough, for unnecessary ugliness always

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Stephen Vincent Benet

offended him. But it would have been the same with any other
man— she was not the sort that lived easily. In any event, she
hated him now, but it did not matter, for, in spite of her hate,
he had a unique sort of confidence in her. The struggle between
them would only end with life, but in the pauses of it they
understood each other.

He smiled— it would seem a queer way of living to that boy
in the guardhouse. One had to give up youth to taste the full
flavor of hazard— youth lacked the steadiness of hand. For him-
self, the constant experiment of sharing meat and drink, year-in,
year-out, with a creature whose heart still held the savage so
barely kept in check by mere adroitness of eye and hand, was
life and a good one. Some day, no doubt, the eye would fail or
the hand lose cunning, and he would be torn. Well, let it be so,
he had had his game.

Meanwhile, there were other diversions, such as that he pur-
posed for this evening. He would think of that now, and taste
it in expectation. But when he tried to do so, his wife's words
beat in his ears, and he came to a halt for a moment, leaning a
little on his cane. After all, it was possible to alter his plans. He
had given too much time to young Beard these last months—
too little to the plantation. Cave, too, he had been careless recently
with Cave— he suspected Cave and the lesser animals in general
of getting a little out of hand. Perhaps it might be well to-
then he shook his head. His project for tonight was too well
matured— tomorrow would be time enough for Cave and the
others. He cut a weed down with his cane and went on, but,
though a stranger would have thought his bearing composed
enough, he was not entirely at ease.

Now it seemed to him that he could hear movement far off
in the woods at his left. He stopped again and listened. Some-
thing was abroad in the woods, undoubtedly, but the sound was
too indistinct for him to make it out clearly. A shadow darted
between two trees near the road— a man with a bag on his back
—he opened his mouth to call at it— no, it was only a trick of
the eye. As for the distant sound, now quieted, it might be a
couple of strayed deer or a band of half-tame Indians on a rice-
stealing expedition— the latter most probably. The Indians had
been growing bold, lately— he must see to that, too. Again, he
was almost on the point of turning back to the coquina-house.

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Then he looked at his watch once more— it was later than he had
supposed— the tiny fact decided him. He marched on, swinging
his cane— the moon had a bright face tonight— the features of
the man in it were distinct. He thought of the old story and
smiled. The moon, as a post of observation, would have its ad-
vantages.

He turned a corner— there were guardhouse and storehouses
below him, their roofs wintry with moonlight. The quiet
familiarity of the scene blew the last of his uneasiness away—
he had never felt more sure of himself or his luck. A few paces
away from the guardhouse door he was challenged in a low
voice by a sentry, held a conversation in whispers for a minute,
and then went in.

The minutes passed, the still, glittering face rose higher in the
sky till the night was perfect. It cast a long straggling shadow
over the barred window of Andrew's cell and a bright pool on
the floor of Sparta Gentian's empty chamber. In the deep woods
that gave upon the St. Augustine road it barely pierced enough
to touch with occasional silver the faces and bodies of men and
women who came slipping silently between the trees, one by
one, like deer trooping together, till the road was full of them.
They came from the direction of the colony, burdened with
packs or children— there seemed no end to their number— they
greeted each other in hushed voices— soon the first of them were
filtering away down the road.

In the colony itself the silver dagger fell upon a different sort
of surreptitious stir, and a clotting together of shadowy shapes
on the skirts of the Italian quarter. Dr. Gentian had wished better
than he knew when he had wished for a post of observation
upon the cold peaks of the moon, and it was unfortunate for him
that his wish could not have been granted. As it was he sat in
the guardhouse, tapping his snuffbox and recapitulating the heads
of a certain discourse he intended to deliver shortly, ignorant
that events already in train were to render that discourse quite
unnecessary.

Mrs. Gentian, however, was soon to be better informed. Her
rigid attitude of the listener had not altered for the last half
hour, she sat in her chair like a sculpture, her hands were marble.
Only her eyes discovered life in them, deep in the pupils, con-
tained, patient and somehow dreadful in its certitude, like the

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Stephen Vincent Eenet

life in the eyes of a spirit caught in a cleft stone. She was waiting
for a sound, and already the last moments of her vigil were upon
her. A mile away, even as one shape among the clotted shapes at
the edge of the Italian huts began to issue orders to the others,
a Greek boy watched from a shadow and then crawled off, to
break into a run for the coquina-house as soon as he was well
away from the huts.

PART FOUR:

THE FIRE ON THE BEACH

The file grated for an instant and then bit air. Andrew gave a.
tug at the bar and nearly fell over backward as it came out in
his hand. He stared at it incredulously. The end of their work
had come.

"We're through, Sebastian," he whispered, "Sebastian, Sebas-
tian, give me a hand with the stone!"

The stone was stubborn, but at last they managed to pry it
free. Then they stood and gazed at the gap for a second of
triumph.

It only lasted a second. Even while they gazed at it they knew,
dreadfully, that they had miscalculated. The hole was just too
small. Both tried it, hopefully, defiantly, hopelessly.

"Cut through another bar," said Andrew, finally, when they
knew they were beaten. "Cut through another bar." The thought
of starting in at the beginning again appalled him so that he
could not trust himself to say any more. This last stroke, at the
very edge of deliverance, was the worst of all. He had thought
himself free of Fear— he had been a child shaking a rattle. Fear
had only crept away for a moment to make its return more
deadly—now it settled into his back like a huge, soft animal
whose claws were iron needles. He could feel the cold, salt sweat
of it on his forehead and hands.

"Anyhow, it will give us two weapons instead of one," mut-
tered Sebastian with bitter philosophy as he worked in a con-
tained fury of haste. Andrew could have hated him for saying

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Spanish Bayonet

that, if there had been time. But there was no time for either hate
or thought or self-pity—there was only time for fear and the con-
tinuous, muffled grate of the file.

After a while they discovered that, with the stone gone, they
could cramp themselves against each other perilously in such a
way that both could file. Even so, it took an eternity till the sec-
ond bar was cut through. But at last that too was accomplished.

"Now," said Sebastian, shivering. "Now, my friend."

Half the window was blocked by his shoulders— then he was
worming out on his side. Andrew's last view of him was of a
pair of shoe-soles that waggled absurdly for a moment and dis-
appeared. He waited ten breaths. No sound. Sebastian must be
safe in the ditch. He transferred the iron thing he was clutching
to his left hand. It was cold in his hand. He gulped and started
to follow Sebastian.

He slid into the ditch head-first, and lay there on his belly, flat
as a lizard. After his days of confinement the outside world
seemed formidably large and open. He was glad for the walls
of the ditch— even with their protection, he felt as lonely and
conspicuous as a shelled oyster. He listened. All that he could
hear was the distant bubble of water in an irrigation canal and the
mutter of wind in the palms. Now the wind rattled a dry leaf
somewhere, like a boy shaking a fan, and he started. Where was
Sebastian? He stretched out his hand, by inches, and was enor-
mously relieved when at last it touched a shod heel.

"Scbas— " he started to whisper.

uSsh," a whisper answered, "sentry." The heel started to writhe
away from him. He followed it, doing his best to make no
noise. That had been the plan, to worm along the ditch till
they were on the side of the prison farthest from the guard-
room, opposite the smaller storehouse. Then they would have to
take to the open.

This crawling was a slow, ludicrous business, especially when
you had to carry a bar of iron in one hand. For a moment he
was reminded of a sack-race, and almost giggled aloud. How
the devil did Sebastian get ahead so fast? He could get along
faster if he dropped this silly bar. No, better not.

They were around the corner now. He raised his head, gin-
gerly, and caught a glimpse of the black bulk of the storehouse.

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Stephen Vincent Ben£t

Sebastian had stopped. A hand came back through the darkness
and dug into his shoulder. Keep quiet, that meant. He lay frozen
to the ground.

Suddenly, and without the slightest warning, a grumbling voice
spoke out of invisibility— a voice that seemed not a dozen feet
away from his head.

"Devil fly away with this musket— my arm's gone asleep again!"
it said, in tones of cockney irritation. Something stamped on the
ground.

"Shut your mouth, you misbegotten son of a sweep," said an-
other voice, low and irate. "Are you a soldier or a nursemaid?"

"I'm a nursemaid," grumbled the first voice— Andrew knew it
now— it belonged to one of the privates who had marched him
to prison— the other voice was the sergeant's. "A bloody private
nursemaid to a couple of stinkin' prisoners what's going to escape
and what never escapes. Why in 'ell can't 'Is Majesty let 'em
escape in daylight when a man can see to shoot?"

"You let them get through and you'll find out what, soon
enough," said the other voice, grimly. "Orders are, take alive or
dead. Remember that."

"Just button 'em up in my pocket / suppose," said the, first
voice in an unimpressed whine. The other voice seemed to choke
for a while. When it recovered it discussed a question of ancestry
with some vividness.

"Oh, all right, sergeant, all right," commented the first voice,
resignedly. "But a man can't 'elp 'is feelin's. If it was an eskylade
now, I'd be breathin' as easy as a babby. But this 'ole and corner
work ain't work for a soldier. W'y can't 'Is Majesty shoot the
pore buggers 'imself if 'e wants 'em shot? Tell me that, now,"
it concluded triumphantly, "an' I'll stand you a pot o' beer."

"Go ask him," said the sergeant's voice, very bitterly. "Go
ask him, Bowbells. He's in the guard-room now, just waiting for
some son of a whore to ask him a question like that. By God,
he'd crucify you."

"Like enough," grunted the other. "Doctor 'e calls 'imself." He
spat. "/ wouldn't trust him to poison a sergeant."

"You're a drunk disgrace to the British Army," said the
sergeant's voice with sour finality, "and I'd have you in the
calabooze this minute if—"

"Aye," saM the other, thoughtfully, "// I wasn't a pearl o7

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Spanish Bayonet

marksmen—and if you could draw a cordon round 'ere without
me— and hif I didn't know 'oo buggered the last payroll— Most
likely. Run along, sergeant, and wipe the other boys' noses for
'em. You can rest easy about this side— there'll be two beautiful
corpses to show 'Is Majesty if they tries to run my post."

"You're drunk, you fool," said the sergeant acridly, and de-
parted. "Wish I was," said the other voice, a trifle plaintively, as
Andrew heard the heavy boots crunch away.

He raised his head cautiously, inch by inch. There was a little
bush at the lip of the ditch— it would hide him as he recon-
noitered.

The sentry was just too far away, in the shadowed door of the
storehouse. For all his sleepy arm, he seemed terribly alert and
there were at least thirty yards of open moonlit ground between
him and them. If they rushed him, one of them would be killed
or disabled in the rush and the other would have to kill at once,
in his turn, before the shot brought up the rest of the guard.

It was like Dr. Gentian, this. Very like him. He could see Dr.
Gentian in a cane-chair in the guard-room, waiting composedly
for his birds to fly into the snare.

He sank back into the ditch again. He felt stiff and cramped.
Dying couldn't be much worse. Sebastian had turned around
somehow, he could see his face. He put his own face close.
"When you say, Sebastian," his lips formed, without sound. He
saw Sebastian's body grow taut and his own muscles tightened.
Then Sebastian's expression changed. "Not yet," he whispered.
He hunched down and began to crawl still farther along the
ditch.

Andrew followed him without hope. As he crawled, he
thought of a rat he had seen once in a stable. It was an old, sick-
looking rat with gray streaks in its fur and it had been hitching
slowly along the wall, looking for its hole. When it had heard
his step it had shown yellow teeth in a weak snarl and crouched
to the floor and he had realized that its eyes were white and
blind. He felt a certain kinship now for that rat.

They had reached the end of the ditch on that side of the
guardhouse. Sebastian had stopped and was raising himself up
a little. Madness. No, not entirely. The ground fell away sharply
beyond this part of the ditch. If they could take five steps across
a swathe of moonlight they could roll into a shadow. But even

"3

Stephen Vincent Benet

as Andrew saw this, the sentry at the storehouse turned his head
slowly toward them. He ducked his head down again with a
little gulp. If a cloud would only cross the moon! But there
seemed to be no real clouds in all the expanse of heaven— only
a few little wisps of silver wool that would hardly veil the bright
face for more than an instant.

Sebastian was fumbling in the bottom of the ditch for some-
thing—a stone. He crouched with the stone in his hand, looking
up at the sky. One of the little wisps was blowing toward the
moon like a drifted feather. Sebastian drew his arm back, waiting.
Now the feather touched the disk, and, for an instant, as Sebas-
tian's stone, cleanly flung, crashed into the bushes at the sentry's
left, the heart went out of the moonlight.

The next moment they were out of the ditch and huddled
together in the shadow. Andrew, out of the tail of his eye, had
somehow caught a glimpse of the sentry whirling away from
them to face the bushes where the stone had fallen. Now every
moment he waited for a cry or a musket shot, but moment after
moment passed, and there was neither shot nor cry. Luck was
with them— so far, they had not been seen. He wondered where
the other sentries were posted.

They crawled along to the edge of their shadow, hugging it
fondly. The slight fall in ground deepened to a little gully that
hid them better— now the storehouse was between them and the
first sentry and they could breathe a trifle easier. They were
going in the opposite direction from the wharves, but that they
could not help till they were sure of having passed beyond the
cordon. When it seemed that they must have done so, they began
to circle back, Sebastian leading the way. He slipped along like
an Indian, Andrew tried despairingly to copy his lightness of
foot. At last they were down below the storehouse and the way
ahead seemed clear. Andrew snatched a look at the sentry through
a screen of brush. The man was yawning, eyes squinted, head
thrown back. He had a ridiculous impulse to flip a pebble at
the gaping mouth, and between that and dreading the sound of
his own feet was so absorbed that when Sebastian, creeping ahead
of him, suddenly darted into the door of a deserted and roofless
hut by the side of the woodpath, his nerves jerked like plucked
fiddlestrings.

Once inside the hut, he soon knew the reason for their taking

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cover. There were footsteps and a mumble of talk coming up
toward the hut from the lower road. "Tricked," said a leaden
accent: "Tricked, by God. A pack of lousy indigo-diggers
to trick us so." Andrew recognized the dull, detested voice with
a pang of hate. A lucid whisper— serene pulse of gold trembling
in hollow of crystal shell— answered the voice and soothed it.
"It does not matter, Charles. We can do without the Mahonese."

"Aye," said Cave. "Aye. We'll have to do without them, now.
But— tricked, by God. I can't get over it, sweetheart. Who'd have
thought they had the guts in them to run away?"

"Charles, Charles, don't think of that now. We are wasting
time."

There was a mutter, then the voices sank. Andrew glared
cautiously through a chink in the rotten wall of the hut. It was
folly he knew, but he could not lie there and listen without
trying to see. Not ten steps away, in a patch of moonlight, stood
Sparta and Mr. Cave. They were talking together in soft, tense
voices— she had her hand on his wrist, she was wheedling him
as if he were an unruly child.

She was dressed entirely in dark stuffs, a dark handkerchief
hid her hair, the cold chastity of the light gave her features a
new beauty, severe, untainted by color, the sharp beauty of the
cutting edge. Andrew thought of a silver axe in a scabbard of
black glass— she had put away gold for the time and with it the
burning gleam of dayspring and planet— the dark handkerchief
capped her head as smoothly and reticently as a helmet— she
looked like the merciless genius of combat itself, neither man nor
woman nor spirit, but something arisen out of the ground with
an arrow in its hand. He could see her standing in a chariot,
Hippolyta, the amazon queen with the maimed and iron breast,
wrapped in the glittering fleece of a golden ram and urging her
cloud-born horses like harnessed gods across the tarnished bodies
of the dead. For an instant, as her face sank into his mind, it
seemed just that it should be so, and he forgot alike that he
had loved her and that she had betrayed him.

She had too much of her father in her to live securely, with
an even heart. Only violence and the brittle loadstone of danger
could release from its cage of sleep, the immortal enemy which
lay enchained in that flesh like an archangel in bonds. Now he
saw it released, a pillar of darkness, and trembled, but not wholly

"5

Stephen Vincent Benet

with fear or hate. The beauty it had was the beauty of the tiger
and the killing frost, but it was beauty, and somewhere at a
point beyond the system of the stars, the unappeasable ecstasy
of its pain lay down on a glittering field and slept between a
dove and a hooded eagle. Cave was a different matter—his dark-
ness was the muddy darkness of a fire of wet straw— and Andrew
felt he could have killed him without the slightest compunction.
But in Sparta, as she was tonight, there was something that would
have turned his hand aside.

Now the two separated, having come to some decision be-
tween them that Andrew was unable to catch, and Sparta glided
away toward the rear of the storehouse. Andrew could only fol-
low her progress vaguely, but it seemed to him that she left a
stir in the darkness behind her as she passed. Cave remained
where he was for some moments, biting his nails. Andrew ges-
tured to Sebastian, inquiringly— attack him? Sebastian shook his
head violently, jerked a thumb toward the way that Sparta had
gone and made motions of counting a troop of men. Andrew
nodded, his heart thumping. There were others, then— they had
blundered into the hut just in time.

He regarded Mr. Cave's back with sullen distaste— would he
never move away and set them free? Now he turned, his eye
fell casually on the hut, he made as if to come closer but thought
better of it. Andrew felt the muscles of his belly contract, and
his fingers clench on the bar. A mocking-bird whistled from
somewhere, and Mr. Cave grew still. It whistled again and he put
his shoulders back and started to walk toward the sentry, crack-
ling the twigs underfoot deliberately as he went as if he wanted
the sentry to hear.

The sentry heard and stiffened, musket to his shoulder. "Who
goes there? " he challenged softly.

Mr. Cave stopped just on the edge of the open ground. "Over-
seer Cave," he said in a flat voice, his bearish shoulders stooped.

"Come out where I can look at you, overseer," said the sentry
briskly, his eye along the barrel.

Mr. Cave approached slowly. "It's^all right, Jenkin," he said
in a confidential voice, "I know your orders. They don't apply
to me. I've a message for the Doctor.''

"Sorry, overseer," said the sentry, lowering his musket. "Have

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Spanish Bayonet

to wait till the sergeant makes rounds again. Strict orders—nobody
to pass."

uYou can read, I suppose," said Mr. Cave with heavy sarcasm,
coming nearer, "I have a pass. Dr. Gentian's signature."

The sentry shook his head.

"Don't know anything about passes," he said. "Show it to
the sergeant," but he brought his musket down and leaned for-
ward as if to inspect a paper.

"But I'm in a hurry, I tell you," said Mr. Cave, very near him.
Then, to Andrew's astonishment, the sentry continued to lean
forward till he had passed his center of balance and, with a
gasp, was falling as it he intended to embrace Mr. Cave in his
outstretched arms. Mr. Cave caught him deftly and lowered him
to the ground.

"Well done, lass," he said in a whisper to the skirted shadow
that had crept around the other corner of the storehouse and
struck the sentry down from behind. He raised his voice a little.
"Come on, boys," he called softly, and the night was suddenly
populous with catlike shapes. One stooped over the fallen sentry
—his hand glittered with something thin and bright— there was the
chuck of a flat stone striking water on its edge, and a horrible,
muffled coughing.

"Sergeant of the Guard!" came a doleful howl from another
quarter of the compass, "Sergeant of the Guard!" A musket shot
clanged on the moonlight. Then events began to succeed each
other far too rapidly for Andrew to keep track of them.

He was out of the hut, with Sebastian, and running. A man
with big white teeth which glittered like dominoes, rose out of
a bush like an evil fairy and struck at him violently with a long,
curved hook. He felt the iron bar in his hand whirl down and hit
vSomething that smashed like a loaded egg and jarred his wrist.
He stumbled and fell. There was shouting in his ears and a pop-
pop-pop of musketry abruptly silenced. He caught a glimpse of
their lugubrious jailer-corporal jabbing furiously at something
behind a tree. Mr. Cave bellowed a command— an even voice that
Andrew knew called orders in reply. Something that hummed
like a wasp snipped a twig from a bough in front of his face-
he jerked and went into an irrigation ditch with a smacking splash
—behind him somebody was screaming "Oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus, oh,

227

Stephen Vincent Benet ,

Jesus!" in a high, affronted whine— now Sebastian was pulling
him out of the ditch and they were running again. Then,
abruptly, he was dragged into a dark pocket between two build-
ings while a dozen men whose leader carried a truss of blazing
straw on a pole went by at a trot.

"Where are we?" he wheezed, lungs laboring. He discovered,
with surprise, that the iron bar was still in his hand. The other
end of it dripped.

"They've missed us," said Sebastian. "Too busy— up there—"
He too was panting, but furiously busy, ramming home a charge
in a musket he had somehow acquired.

"Where did"— began Andrew, staring at it, dazedly.

"Fool with a cap," panted Sebastian. It seemed sufficient ex-
planation. "Look," he said, "Fire."

Andrew peeped around the corner of the building. They were
still much nearer the guardhouse than he had supposed. On one
hand the moon lit the scene with precise, bleak radiance, on the
other, a little hut, to the right of the guardhouse, was burning
like a spill of paper with fierce, brief flame.

Mr. Cave and his men had taken such cover as storehouse and
trees afforded. He could see them swarming in the shadows like
uneasy flies. On the lit and open ground between them and
the guardhouse lay a number of broken dolls in attitudes of dis-
comfort. One had on a red coat and lifted up an arm now, to
let it drop again as if it were too heavy. There were various
cries.

Andrew caught his breath. Dr. Gentian could not have more
than a couple of men with him in the guardhouse now. Mr. Cave
must have fifty at least. Yet Mr. Cave and his men had not been
able to cross that little stretch of open, moonlit ground. True,
the besieged were poorly armed and the besiegers had every ad-
vantage of shelter, but even so. ...

Even as he watched, a dozen men dashed out from cover,
their heads down as if they were running into a rain, and made
for the guardhouse door. They carried a log among them— the
intent was evident. A loophole coughed at them and the leading
man stumbled and fell as if something invisible had struck him
across the shins. The charge wavered— a second man sank slowly
to his knees, like a tired horse— the others broke, dropping the

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Spanish Bayonet

log— one of them was wringing his hand and putting it 'to his
mouth, like a boy with burnt fingers. Mr. Cave was cursing.

Something tugged at Andrew's sleeve. uGive me one of your
buttons," said Sebastian's voice in his ear, fierce and hurried.
uThey are silver, aren't they— I must have silver, too— no, a little
one-
Andrew wrenched one of the tarnished buttons loose from his
coat and saw, uncomprehendingly, Sebastian take it, drop it into
the narrow, black well of the musket-barrel, ram it down. Then
Sebastian was crouching on one knee, muttering to himself,
musket poised.

Mr. Cave was roaring in the trees like a bull, trying to lift his
men across that patch of open ground. But they would not be
lifted, they stuck where they were. There was a weight on their
limbs, the invisible weight of a name, it pressed them to the earth.
The beasts had turned on the beast-tamer, but they were still
afraid of his whip.

Andrew caught a second's glimpse of Mr. Cave, as he darted
from one shadow to another, raging. Sebastian cursed softly—
the glimpse had been too short for him to fire. Now they heard
a shrill, frightened squealing, and the thud of boots kicking flesh.
Mr. Cave encouraging his followers. Then again, for an instant,
he was in clear view, recklessly exposed against the glare of the
burning hut. His hands were cupped to his mouth, he was calling
aloud.

"Come out, you damned old wizard!" he roared, in a furious,
weeping voice. "Come out and surrender— your life if you'll sur-
render!—if you don't, by God, we'll roast you there in your
shell!"

A flash answered from a window and Mr. Cave's broad hat
spun from his head as if a gust of wind had tweaked it. Dr. Gen-
tian's clear, sharp voice called back something in Italian, threat
or promise, and Andrew could see the besiegers stir uneasily
in the darkness. Then four things happened, almost in the same
instant.

A man with a bloody face and a naked scythe in his hand
burst out of a clump of darkness, followed by a score of others,
and fell upon the flank of Mr. Cave's forces. The clear, sharp
voice cried out to them like a joyous cock. Mr. Cave, his body

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Stephen Vincent Benet

convulsed, leapt to rally his men— and the musket in Sebastian's
hands exploded.

It was a long shot, and at first Andrew thought that it had
missed. Then he saw Mr. Cave hitch, queerly, in his stride, get
on again, and then collapse slowly into the ground, as if quick-
sand had taken him. A form that must have been Sparta's, for it
had streaming hair, ran out of an eddy of conflict and fell upon
the body like a dog on a grave.

"The wharves!" called the clear, sharp voice, weaker now, but
still very joyous. "Head them off from the wharves, you Greeks-
they're making for the wharves!"

They were running again. There was clamor and a flare be-
hind them, where men hunted other men in the moon-splashed
darkness like terriers chasing rats in a moonlit barn. Sebastian was
ahead of him— behind there were many, but the beaten Italians
were throwing their weapons away and calling "Surrender-
Surrender—" in high, shrill voices. Andrew threw a glance over
his shoulder, and saw, in a nightmare flicker, a fellow twenty
yards behind him stare stupidly at a point of steel that stuck
abruptly out of his breast and fall, tripping the man who had
run him through the back. Then the ground under Andrew's
feet rang hollow suddenly— the wharf. He slipped on greasy
wood— was down on his knees— up again. "Here," called Caterina s
voice— he caught at a hand— leapt— sprawled into the bottom of
a rocking boat.

There was an oar somewhere— he grabbed at it and began to
splash with it furiously. They were moving away from the
wharf now, but the damn sail wouldn't catch the wind. Row!
The boat seemed to stick in the water like a bug in a stream of
molasses but the gap between it and the wharf was widening—
just in time, for there was shouting behind them now. He stole
a glance back. There was the man with the bloody face. His
left arm dangled at his side like a broken stick. He was yelling
something and pointing. There was a ragged spatter of sound
—something jumped under Andrew's oar like a frog taking water
—he heard a gasp from the bow of the boat. "Flit, Caterina?" he
called, but "No, no," said a voice.

Then the sail filled at last, and the wind and the current took
them. The man with the bloody face was shouting and dancing
up and down, but his voice was fainter. They swept around a

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curve, he was blotted out. There was nothing left of New
Sparta but a confused, diminishing uproar and a dying redness in
the sky.

He stopped splashing with his oar and put it down. The boat
must be the little pleasure-boat which he and Sparta had used
in their expeditions for turtle, Andrew noticed now. He won-
dered how seaworthy it would be when they got outside the bay.

Another thought struck him. Carlos, the boy, who was to
have been with them.

"What happened to Carlos?" he said.

"At the last moment, he was afraid," said Caterina, calmly.
"So he went with them."

"With who?"

"With the other Minorcans. They heard they were to be
killed tonight, so they went away."

"Went away! In God's name, how could they go away?"

"The soldiers were busy. Mr. Cave had been to them and told
them to revolt, but they did not trust him. So the old people
met and decided. They told Mr. Cave they would be ready
tonight, but as soon as it was night, they tied up their overseers
and began to go away, one by one. A few were left, to deceive.
The Italians did not stop them, they thought it was part of the
plan. When they found out, it was too late. Mr. Cave had to
choose between running after them and fighting Dr. Gentian."

Andrew gasped. So that explained Mr. Cave's grumbling.
-Tricked, by God!"

If Dr. Gentian had been watchful or Mr. Cave loyal, so ap-
pallingly obvious a plan could never have succeeded— but the
Doctor's watchfulness had been employed solely upon Andrew
and Sebastian and Mr. Cave's treachery had wrecked his own
scheme. Add to this the firm belief in the animal stupidity of the
Minorcans which both Cave and his master held as a tenet of
faith, and the thing was done. After years of rule, men grew
careless, forgetting the ruled can have any craft. If Mr. Cave
had won, he would doubtless have blamed the slaughter of Dr.
Gentian on the departed Minorcans and, with Sparta's word to
back him, could have looted the plantation as he pleased. Andrew
pondered these circumstances in his mind.

"Did you know of this, Sebastian?" he said.

"When you told me what that dead man planned, I thought

Stephen Vincent Benet

there must be some way out for my people. I told Caterina to
tell them to do what seemed best and not think of us— that we
would rescue ourselves. "

The fact of Mr. Cave's death struck Andrew now with a queer
force— he had hardly taken it in before. Mr. Cave would never
dabble his fingers in Sparta Gentian's hair again or rave im-
potently at the legitimate world. It seemed odd to think of that
strong, bulky body empty of violence— those heavy hands no
longer able to afflict or destroy. There must be something left
—a soul?— where was it? He saw it fluttering in the wind like a
burnt rag, maimed, stupid, defiant and alone. "Poor devil," he
thought for a moment— the rag fluttered at him angrily— it did
not want pity— it still wanted to hurt but it no longer had the
power— the thought made him a little sick. . . .

"Think they'll chase us?" he said, after a while.

"Have their hands full," said Sebastian. "Caterina says the
Italians were going to pay off old scores and fire die Greek huts.
If they did, they'll be fighting fire all the rest of the night."

They were far down the river now, the breeze had freshened,
the current ran smooth and fast. All sound but the sound of
water and wind and trees had died away. Andrew trailed his
hand over the side and drew it up, dripping. His mind was quiet-
ing gradually. Already the furious scene in which, such a short
time ago, he had taken such active part seemed unreal as a stage-
play. Yet it had been real. He had passed through just such a
painted and bedizened adventure as he had always envied and
wished against hope might be his own, when he was a little boy
playing under a table, listening to the ship-captains and soldiers
tell their sparse, enthralling tales. He had broken a prison— he
had killed a man— even now he was running away from death
in a leaky pleasure-boat, perhaps to be wrecked on an island like
Robinson Crusoe's, perhaps merely to drown. Yet it did not seem
to him that this adventure was his, as the adventure in the tales
had been his while he listened to them.

Now he knew why those tales had been so sparse and crudely-
fashioned. When you were living a tale you did not have time
to color it as it should be colored— your mind stuck on odd
useless trifles— the teeth of a man you struck— the feel of an iron
bar— the shape of a sail against the stars. Besides, in life, you were
hungry and thirsty and had to make water— things which did not

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happen in a tale, or if they did, assumed heroic proportions. He
felt betrayed, somehow, as he thought of this. Even he should
have a trace at least of attractive venturesomeness upon him now,
but if it were there, he could not see or feel it. The thought of
the long, baking voyage still ahead of them brought no flavor of
romance with it, no smell of strange flowers. It would be hot
and irksome and dangerous, and he would be very glad when
it was done.

Something splashed overside— -Caterina was bailing the boat. He
sighed and started to help her. After a while she stopped, but
he went on.

"Tired, Caterina?" he said, in a pause.

"No— yes—but it does not matter," she said, with face half
turned. She shut her eyes for an instant— the moon laid a silver
penny on each closed lid. He stared at her face. Then she
started to bail again, and the slight charm was broken.

She gave a little sigh after a moment. "I think they hit me, after
all," she said in a commonplace voice.

He crawled over to her, anguished suddenly. "Where is it?"
he said.

"There— ah"— his fingers touched something sticky and warm.
On her left side her dress was soaked— blood or water?— he could
not tell.

"Do you hear, Sebastian? She's hurt," he said, in a sharp, angry
voice. The dark figure at the tiller moved uneasily, the boat
shifted, spray blew in Andrew's face.

"Is it deep, Caterina?"

"No, no— only a flesh wound— nothing— " But her voice seemed
changed. "Sec, when I put my hand on it— it stops the blood."

Andrew put her hand aside, gently. He started to tear a strip
from his shirt to bandage the wound. But the shirt was dirty and
hard to tear. "Have you a handkerchief— anything— Caterina?" he
asked anxiously. He felt in the darkness— she was wearing a scarf
at her waist. He held her up and undid it.

"My poor scarf," she said, smiling. Her eyelids fluttered and
closed again— her face looked more content.

He bandaged the wound as best* he could with the scarf.
"There, is that better?"

"Much," she said, and sighed lazily. "Thank you, senor Beard."

"Don't call me senor" said Andrew.

Stephen Vincent Eenet

"I won't call you anything," she said, with a faint laugh. "I
shall go to sleep. I am tired. Wake me when it is time to bafl
again."

He helped her to stretch out as comfortably as possible in the
bottom of the boat, pillowing her head on the coat from which
Sebastian had taken the button. Then he crawled back aft and
crouched there, his head by Sebastian's knees. They were out in
the little bay, now, the moonlight was ghostly on its white
shelveNs of sand, the line of foam on the beach was a pale thread
spun by a ghost on a shuttle of pearl. Presently they would run
past the headland and the broad sea would take them.

Sebastian tested the wind. "Good," he muttered. "Can yom
handle her, amigo, after we get out of this bay?"

"Uh," said Andrew, nearly asleep. Sebastian laughed. "I'll wake
you when you have to take her," he said.

Andrew threw back his head and looked up at the sky, breath-
ing deep. The moon was a sailor's lamp now, a lamp of silver
salt, sea-crusted, at the masthead of heaven. The stars were lights
in a rigging. As he lay back he felt not only the movement of the
boat, but a larger, vaguer roll, the roll of earth itself, a dark,
huge ark plunging forward slowly through a black-and-silver
waste. The slow way of that tremendous passage shook in his heart.
He felt suddenly very happy and no longer dismayed by what
might be in store for them. They had escaped, they were free.
Caterina lay sleeping there in the bow: he could make out the
huddle of her shoulder. In the morning he would see her as he
had never seen her, familiar, friendly, with no mark of fear or
oppression between her brows. They would live together always,
somehow, Sebastian, Caterina and he— and gradually the stigmata
of the stranger would depart from him and he would be able to
read the runes enciphered in the ivory box of her heart.

His eyes, however, were closing. They could not really have
closed, for it did not seem a moment before Sebastian nudged
him to take the tiller and the sheet. Yet they stuck when he tried
to open them, and when he had the tiller in his hand at last, the
bay was gone and the boat was climbing endless hummocks of
black-and-silver glass. It was rougher than it had been in the bay
and the boat seemed diminished and apologetic in the wide face
of ocean, but it settled to its work like a tired and patient pony,
and after a few moments Andrew felt less afraid of drowning

Spanish Bayonet

them all. The breeze was steady, he had little to do but follow
the coastline and keep from going to sleep.

Twice he shipped unnecessary water and once just averted
jibing disastrously in a sudden puff, then he settled back into
the way of it as a man who has not ridden for some time settles
back into the way of a horse. The heavy drowsiness of exhaus-
tion no longer pawed at his throat— the black-and-silver monot-
ony, the rushing of the near water, lulled him, but not toward
sleep, rather into a shining, half-bodiless wakeful ness. Fie felt that
he could steer forever, through an endless, fluid universe of wet
shadow streaked with radiance while the boat answered his hand.

2.

The sky was a flight of gray doves touched with faint, pink
markings like the markings inside a seashell, the sea was a heap
of rose-quartz and gray stones, the light that came seemed to
struggle through dew and roughened glass. It was the illusory
hour, the hour just before dawn, when the tide of the blood sets
back toward life again, and birds ruffle their feathers, and a light
wind rises from nowhere to run across the tops of grass-blades,
shaking a crystal bauble, whose tiny clapperless bells utter only
the ghost of sound.

Andrew, heavy-eyed, saw the boat and his companions solidify
and emerge from a world where all was mist and water of light
Sebastian changed from a heap of sacks to a man asleep— there
was a little fur of dew on his garments. Andrew looked down at
his own shirt— yes, it too was damp and the tiller beyond his
hand was beaded at the edges. Of a sudden he felt very cold and
shivered. Well, he would be hot enough when the sun was up.

He stared at the shore-line, wondering how far they had come.
He had no idea. Wet rocks and white beach— a palm-tree like
a green feather duster on end— a hedge of wild -Spanish bayonet
on the brow of a cliff— it might be anywhere on the Florida coast.
He felt lost and alone in a world, except for him and the sleepers
in the boat, so completely deserted of humanity that he had the
odd feeling he should breathe very slowly and gently or the
whole misty picture of land and sea and sky would rise from
around them in a sudden thunder of wings, like a flight of scared
partridge, and leave boat and cargo swinging in a sparkling, meas-

Stephen Vincent Benet

ureless void. Now a gull rose squawking from between two
humps of water and he took odd comfort in that harsh and living
sound. The universe altered slowly from gray and rose as he
watched the gull, the colors of morning deepened, the east caught
fire from a burning bush.

The day would be hot and calm. Already the wind was chang-
ing and dying as it changed. All day they would crawl over
flawed sapphire under the point of a brazen arrow. He must wake
the others. He wondered how much fresh water they had on
board. He had crept in too near the coast— they were on the
edge of rocky waters. Wake Sebastian, yes.

He leaned over and shook Sebastian by the shoulder. "Wake
up!" he said. Sebastian stirred and groaned. Should he wake
Caterina? He looked over at her \Uierc she lay in the bow.

Her head had slipped off his coat in the night; it was pillowed
on her arm now, uncomfortably. Her other arm lay lax— the
hand trailed in a puddle of water. He rubbed his eyes— she must
be very tired to sleep in so cramped a posture. Then he saw
that the red color in the puddle was not the reflection of the
sun, and that, if she were sleeping, she slept with open eyes.

He was stumbling over to her, wildly, across Sebastian's body.
The boat yawed violently and nearly flung him overboard. He
heard Sebastian give a startled shout. Then he had her in his
arms and the world was steady again.

"You're not dead," he kept saying to her. "You can't be dead/*
His hand passed over her forehead a dozen times, smoothing it.
He felt at her wrist, at her heart, there was nothing to feel but
flesh. Her fingers were cool, but it was the insensate coolness of
wax and stone. The blood on her dress was drying already— she
must have bled a great deal for all the water around her was
stained.

Still holding her, he stared anxiously down at her face, trying
to realize^ This at lease— death could not have come in horror but
only as a slow dissolving tincture, for, though there was no smile
upon them, her features were composed. She looked very tired
and a little stern, but not dead as he thought of death. There was
a stain on her mouth where she had bitten her lip: he wiped it
off with his sleeve.

No, to her death could not have been as horrible as it might
have been, but to him it was most horrible that she should have

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died so quietly, without a word. Perhaps she had meant to call
out and had been too weak— he tried to remember dizzily if he
had heard a sound in the night— she must have made some sort
of sound. He could remember nothing.

He looked back. Sebastian was staring at them fixedly from
the helm. His hand lay on the tiller as if he had forgotten it—
a little muscle twitched in his cheek— his eyes were fey. Andrew
thought, oddly, that he looked much as a man looks who has just
got a sharp, excruciating blow in the groin— his mouth had the
same sick stiffness.

He laid Caterina down. Then, bending over her, he looked
ahead and felt a hoarse, startled cry tear out of his throat.
"Rocks!" he yelled. "Sebastian! We're going on the rocks!" and
fell in the stained water in the bottom of the boat as the bAat
jerked and the sail slatted over. There was a firm little jar be-
neath him like a sharp push from a heavy hand— a ripping sound
—then catastrophe had passed, and they were going on again.

"Get out farther— from coast—" he said weakly, scrambling up.
He looked back. Another moment and they would have struck
that jagged line of black stumps full on. As it was they had just
scraped across the edge where the water simmered uneasily like a
bubbling pot. They had just escaped.

His feet were wetter tnan they had been. He stared down. A
little spring of water was pumping up in the bottom, diluting the
bloody puddles with fresh clear green. That slight firm push had
been enough to ruin them. The boat was filling.

"Have to beach her, Sebas'," he said in a lifeless voice. "We're
sinking."

Sebastian did not seem to hear: he was still staring ahead, with
those blind, busy eyes, as if he were intent on counting every
wyave in the sea.

"Christ," said Andrew, flatly, and went back to shake him alive.

They beached the boat just in time. Twenty yards more to go
or a rougher sea and they could not have done it. As it was,
when a slow, huge roller took her at last and sludged her nose
in the sand, she hesitated in its grip like a flogged, unwieldy mare,
and the sea nearly took her and Caterina back again before they
could haul up into safety. When they had done so, they lifted
out Caterina's body between them and carried it up on the beach.

They had landed in a little cove. The sand was very clean and

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Stephen Vincent Benet

white— their footsteps dinted it sharply. It was morning now—
the dew had vanished— the world was a glittering toy of silver and
blue enamel.

"We must bury her/' said Sebastian dully. "We cannot take
her with us to consecrated ground." The muscle throbbed in his
cheek. It was the first time he had spoken.

"I wish there were a priest," he said, looking about. "We must
put up a cross." His mouth jerked.

Andrew followed his glance. There were other marks on the
sand beside the marks of their footsteps and those of the gulls.
A long slouching track crossed the beach and broke off at the
edge of the rocks, the pawprints indented freshly like the marks
of a devil's signet-ring.

"We can't just bury her and leave her," he said, with a shudder.
He stared at the tracks. In the darkness something came down
from the woods and pawed at a new mound.

He turned to his friend.

"Help me get some wood, Sebastian," he said, with a sob.
"They can't hurt her if we burn her."

They toiled all morning, making the pyre. There was drift-
wood scattered on the beach and, up a little gully, they came
upon the dry, tindery carcass of a dead tree. At last, toward
afternoon, they had enough and sat down to rest for a while and
to try to eat. The hard bread and boucanned meat with which
the boat had been provisioned was soaked and dirty, the water
in the keg brackish and warm, but neither of them noted these
things. Andrew heard the tinkle of running water, somewhere up
in the woods. "Stream, Sebastian," he said, but he was too tired to
go and look for it. He brushed the crumbs from his knees and
rose. "Come along," he said.

The pyre was a tangled heap of wood— broken jackstraws clut-
tered together. They covered it with the sail, smoothing it out
clumsily. Then they laid Caterina upon it. Sebastian had closed
her eyes and her dress was as much in order as they could man-
age. Now Sebastian crossed her hands on her breast and, taking
a little brass medal from a string about his neck, put it between
them. "I should not have prayed for vengeance," he muttered, his
mouth shaking. Then he got down.

They both stood for a moment, gazing. She lay reclined on the
sail in a posture of stiff ease— she looked smaller than he remem-

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Spanish Bayonet

bered her, but neither pitiful nor strange. Andrew thought of the
first time he had seen her, a barbarous saint, walking through the
deep coils of night with a candle in her hand. She had seemed
removed enough then, now she was forever removed. The fingers
had been cool, the alien heart had carried a treasure secretly,
wrapped in a gleaming cloth. Now the secret and she were air,
he could follow them no longer, the treasure was lost, the runner
in chains had shaken off the burden. What had been the mystery
in the blood, so jealously guarded— the writing behind the eyes?
Had she loved him, had she loved Sebastian, had she loved any
man on earth? It did not matter now, she had taken her knowl-
edge with her, clutched between stiff fingers, like a relic re-
turned to its saint, secure alike from worshippers and blasphemers.
It was gone, now, and writh it had gone the youthful part of his
heart.

He wished, idly, that he had not torn her scarf, the night be-
fore, to bandage her wound. She had not liked his tearing her
scarf.

"Wait," he said, as Sebastian bent to strike the flint on the
steel. He looked about desperately—there must be something else
—something he could give. His glance fell on a bush of green
spikes near the foot of the cliff. The Spanish bayonet was just
coming into flower again, as he had seen it in flower, in Judge
Willo's garden. He ran ploddingly over to the bush and thrust
his hand among the thorns. His arm was bleeding from a dozen
scratches when he pulled it out, but he had the flower. It had
not yet come to full bloom, but it was enough.

He laid the white stalk on her breast— it rested there like an
order bestowed by the Moon. He touched her fingers an instant.
Then he crouched down at Sebastian's feet to blow the tinder into
sparks.

The sparks hung for a moment and caught, the tinder started
to burn. They fed the flame carefully, with small pieces,, till it
grew strong, then they stood aside. The bottom logs begun to
crackle, a little at first, then more. The driftwood burned eerily
with ghosts of blues and greens, strange as the colors of an en-
chanter's rose; as it mounted, the flame grew purer.

Soon the whole pyre was well alight. The tiny cracklings
blended into a fiercer, deeper utterance, strangely petulant in
that quietude where the only other sound was the slow crash

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Stephen Vincent Benet

of a single, heavy breaker on the sand, repeated at even intervals
like the firing or minute-guns for the burial of a mermaid queen
in a tomb of coral and weed. Above the pyre the heat began to
tremble in the still air like threads of isinglass. They could not
have quenched the fire now if they had wished— it had become a
furnace—the petulant mutter settled to a harsh, husky roar. Now
the overlapping edge of the sail felt the pure aspiration of the
flame— a wrisp of smoke blew across Caterina's face— a running
creeper of fire sprang up and crouched at her feet.

Andrew turned away. Sebastian was lying face down in the
sand, his arms out, his body in the shape of a cross. He was
silent, but now and then a convulsive shudder rippled the muscles
of his back and broke.

Andrew looked blindly at the palm of his own hand, sur-
prised to find it unscorched, undefaccd by fire. Fie would not
look at the pyre again, to see that body altered and the last
revenge of flesh on spirit. So he looked once, hastily, but saw
nothing but flame and smoke. Through the rest of his life, he
thought, in stupor of mind, he would go his ways like a man
caught up alive out of hell, with the rustle of fire always in his
ears and the thin, acrid reek of it clung to his flesh.

They had to feed the fire once, when it slackened, but by
then they were numb and went about the task like sleepers.

It was over at last. The pyre had sunk to a bed of ashes and
sparks. There were charred things lying there, but they did not
gather them up. What little wind there was had scattered some of
the ashes, they could not tell which were hers. They heaped
stones in a rough sort of cairn over the place and covered the
stones with sand. Soon the mound looked as if it had always been
there. At the top of the finished mound, Sebastian put a badly-
fashioned cross— two pieces of wood lashed together with rope.
Andrew looked at it, thinking the next gale would blow it down.

He had intended to cut a name on the cross, but the only
knife they had was dull, and now there was no time.

He tried to recollect what he could of the burial service they
rend in Trinity Church, in the brown gloom, under the puffy
busts of gilded angels. "I am the resurrection and the life,'' he
nmttered, but the remembered syrup of the minister's voice
spoiled the words. Besides, any words seemed an affront to the
bleak impermanence of that heap of sand and stones.

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Spanish Bayonet

The sun was low in the sky— his shadow on the sand was long
and black. They could not have mended the boat without tools
and they had no tools but a musket and a dull knife. They would
have to go on. They would have to try and find the road.

"We'd better get on," he murmured, lifting from the ground
the little pack of bread and dried meat he had tied up in his coat.

They had known before what it was to go on when they stood
at the end of resource, now they were to know what it was to go
on beyond that end. There were two courses open to them— to
plunge into the woods at a venture, hoping to strike the road and
the Minorcans— or to attempt to reach St. Augustine by the
beaches, alone. They would make better time at first, along the
beach, but at the end of the cove a headland jutted out into
rocks and they would have to swim for it. They chose the woods,
staking what was left them on finding the road in the few hours
of daylight that remained.

At first, it was easy. At the top of the gully they climbed
was a long open glade, full of lush, deep grass. But at the end
of the glade the underbrush began. They tried to keep a straight
course by picking one tree out of the many to guide them, but,
as they had to fight their way through the underbrush, their
guidepost-tree would mix with other trees, and though they
would imagine they had found the right one again, they could
not be sure. Their tree had had a lightning-blaze on its left side
—this one was blazed there too, but the blaze seemed a different
shape.

Twilight came and with it the fear of the woods, the fear of
going around and around the circle of a tethered horse till at
last something cracked in the mind as they stumbled again upon
the deep-trodden track they had made before, and they began
to strike at the trees with their hands. The light faded inexorably,
night crept between the trees, soft-footed, dark-eyed. "Mustn't
run," said Andrew to himself, plodding ahead through a confu-
sion of shadows.

There was a dry stirring in the bushes at his right— a sound
half-yawn, half-hiss, like the hiss of an angry cat. He froze. In
his mind he could feel the blunt, cool, deadly head of a moccasin

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Stephen Vincent Benet

against his thigh. Indians, too,— he remembered the Indian he had
seen peer out of a bush and vanish. "Mustn't run," he repeated to
himself with a gulp. It was very dark now. When he got back
in a house, he would never let it be dark. He would sleep with a
dozen candles flaring in his room and buy a slave to keep them
tended all through the night. A bough stung his cheek. "Mustn't
run," but, insensibly, he Knew his pace had increased.

He plunged through a little thicket that seemed full of fish-
hooks and came out upon an open space. Where was Sebastian?
He couldn't hear Sebastian behind him any more. He stood
trembling on the edge of the clearing like a beaten hound. He
did not dare call to Sebastian— there might be no answer. If there
were no answer, he would go quite mad.

"Mustn't run," he advised himself for the last time, and then,
tearing the pack from his shoulders with a jerk, began to run
blindly across the clearing on drunken feet, moaning to himself
as he ran. Things struck at him with springy clubs, but he kept
on, thrashing his arms against them like a drowning man. Then
at last the ground itself betrayed him and gave way beneath him,
and he was rolling into a hidden pit where Fear and Night lay
crouched like twin spiders, ready to swathe him in suffocating,
innumerable folds of glutinous, dark silk the moment he touched
bottom.

His next conscious memory was of a dark, concerned face,
grinning down at him through a red shadow. "Ami go" said the
face. "Amigo. Que tal, senor?" He grinned back at the face. It
was Carlos, the boy he had given a Spanish dollar, years ago.
He sat up, feeling his head spin. "Where's Sebastian?" he said.

"Sebastian!" called the boy, joyously, "Sebastian!" and now
Sebastian came running out of the red shadow with a wooden
bowl in his hand. He set the bowl down, and dropping beside
Andrew, kissed him solemnly and smackingly on both cheeks,
while Carlos clucked his approval. For a nervous moment Andrew
thought Carlos was going to kiss him, too, but he did not. He
trotted back toward the campfire that made the red shadow, call-
ing something as he went. Then Sebastian had picked up the
wooden bowl and was feeding Andrew hot, tasty bits of pepper-
stew with his fingers.

Their luck had turned at last. The Minorcans had heard him
shouting in the woods, and thinking one of their stragglers had

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lost his way, had sent out a party which came upon him as he
rolled into the road like a shot rabbit. He had missed Sebastian
because Sebastian, a little behind him, had seen firelight through
the trees and had stopped to make sure. Then Sebastian had called
to him, but his ears had been too full of his own terror to hear
the call.

Revived by the stew, he listened eagerly to the news from
New Sparta. A house-boy who had been unable to get away with
the main body of the Minorcans had caught them up toward
evening on a stolen horse. Of the post of eight soldiers, only
the lugubrious corporal and a badly-wounded private remained.
Dr. Gentian had been hurt in the fight but was alive, and Mrs.
Gentian and the sub-overseers now ruled the wreck of the planta-
tion. It was she who had checkmated Cave with a handful of her
favorite Greeks— at the last moment there had been jealousy be-
tween the Greek and Italian sides of Cave's forces and the Greeks
had finally decided to betray the revolt, just in time to save Dr.
Gentian's life.

The Italians— what was left of them— were cowed. Some of
them had managed to get hold of the sloop and take it half-
way down the inlet, but there, having no sailors among them,
they had stranded and decided to throw themselves on Mrs. Gen-
tian's mercy. The colony was still unsettled and apprehensive,
but Mrs. Gentian was definitely in the saddle and she rode with
a tight rein. The man did not know what policy she intended to
adopt towards the Minorcans— three messengers at least had rid-
den for St. Augustine, but two of them had already fallen into
the Minorcans' hands, not unwillingly— and she could not afford
to send many more.

Andrew asked for the other news, hesitatingly. About Miss
Gentian he did not know— she was nursing her father, he thought.
The words offered Andrew an incredible picture. He saw Dr.
Gentian nightcapped, in a curtained bed, taking a cup from
Sparta with a weak hand. They were looking at each other with
blank, acquiescent eyes. That the cup contained more than
beverage seemed improbable. Both understood, both hated, but
both were under the whip, for the tall woman with the proud
nose and the secret mouth had come to her kingdom at last and
bound them equally, without compunction or passion. While she
lived, they would live as she willed, now. They had the strength

Stephen Vincent Eenet

of beauty and violence and wit, but she had the strength of
silence, and her strength engulfed theirs, as the well of darkness
under the world engulfs its fallen stars.

He could see them living together for years— a devoted family
—a pair of serpents under an iron bar, not daring to strike each
other because the bar was mute and cold, and they could not
tell what it would do if they struck. Some day Sparta, no doubt,
would marry—her mother's man, this time. To the world they
would present a united front. They would carry it off— oh, yes,
—he trusted them for that.

He shuddered a little, seeing them all at table together, a year,
five years from now. A curly-haired young man, dressed in the
extreme of frippery, with a face as bland and foolish as a face
painted on an egg, sat at Sparta's left, making tabletalk to his new
relations. Poor rabbit, thought Andrew, and smiled. The last
shreds of youth's dearest delusion, the delusion that life will
come to a climax of thunder and cease, fell from him silently.
Only by accident was life as neat a workman as that. The climax
might come a dozen times, but after each climax the workman
would go on, like an idiot building a castle, adding story upon
story to what was already complete.

His own life, by all canons of art and taste, should have fin-
ished when the last sand fell upon the mound on the beach they
had left behind. Instead, here he was, eating pepper-stew, and
relishing it, on the whole. If there were any moral inherent in
the course of events which had happened to him, he had yet to
descry it. But for accident he would be lying in the prison ditch
with lead in his lungs, and Mr. Cave would be alive and roaring.
Was he any better off as it was and Mr. Cave any worse?— he
did not know. He felt that he was fast becoming a pagan and it
hurt his sense of the fitness of things. Then the Scotch strain in
him, that drop which with the Jewish drop and the Irish, can
survive a dozen admixtures of blood to dominate a mind, reas-
serted itself and told him grimly that it was not his business to
question the schemes of God, but to hold on dourly to a pre-
destined path between damnation and damnation, and distrust
the vain speculations of the Egyptians. He could not quite be-
lieve its voice— would it call Caterina a vain Egyptian, he won
dered— but it sufficed to send him off to sleep as soundly as if he
were hearing John Knox preach.

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The camp broke up before dawn. The women gathered up
their babies and their cooking pots— the head of the column
straggled out in the road— the dust began to rise— the day's march
was on. Andrew watched perhaps a quarter of the column pass,
spectral in the early light, with a sense of dream, before he fell in
the ranks at Sebastian's side. He had always liked the Minorcans,
but his ruling impression of them had been one of gravity; he
was amazed to see how lightly they seemed to take this wild
expedition. They had left the promised land they had labored
on for five years behind them and with it the greater part of their
few possessions. They were marching to an unknown future,
perhaps to prison or death, but the general mood seemed that of
children on a holiday, and ahead some boy was strumming a
cracked guitar.

A child ran out of the ranks to pick a flower, was brought back
howling, and given a slap and a sweetmeat. A mysterious Spanish
joke on a plump young man was passed from rank to rank with
an accompaniment of laughter and pointing fingers. Andrew
could see the back of the neck of the young man in question,
redden under its tan— then he turned to fling back a snorting
expletive over his shoulder and the laughter grew ecstatic. One
waddling matron frankly sat down in the middle of the road
to laugh her fill and was promptly surrounded by a circle of
arguing, encouraging relations. A girl and a boy had their hand.*,
locked together as they marched, and the ranks around them
turned into one vast admiring family that tickled them with
solemn or ribald advice, to which they paid not the slightest
attention. A grave, white-bearded elder carried a trussed live
chicken under his arm— it squawked incessantly and pecked at
his sleeve.

They had few arms and scant provender— most of the men
had no better weapons than clubs or rude wooden pikes. Sebas-
tian was a person of great importance since he carried a musket.
An Indian attack in force would mean massacre, a journey too
long drawn out the hunger pinch, but they seemed to have con-
sidered these things and put them aside. Now Andrew began to
understand the quality in them that had taken them across an
ocean to live in a strange land for five years under a rod without

Stephen Vincent Benet

losing heart. There was a hardness hidden somewhere under their
grace that called up all the Scot in him to answer it and he
found himself whistling "The Bonny House of Airlie" as he
trudged along in the dust.

Grief, autumnal color of the stained and fugitive wood, sad
vesture of red and gold, severe counsellor, true companion—
your hands touch at the heart as lightly and idly as a child's
and leave it shaken, then like a child you depart, on light feet,
idly. Honest playfellow, candid guest, your company is strict, but
for young men, brief; no matter how straitly the spirit would
detain you, mind and body and time are too strong to endure for
longer than a terse and appointed term so reticent a visitant. The
earth stirs in its mail of frost, the geese begin to fly North again,
the fire dies in the chimney, it is time for you to go. The wind
will blow over the field but your voice will be in it no longer,
the rain fall from the sky in showers, no longer austere with the
echo of your sober bells. Now only the old, discarded traveller in
the hearth-corner keeps your shadow alive in his breast, stretch-
ing out cold, knotted fingers before a diminishing flame.

That even the deepest sorrow can be transient was, however,
a fact which Andrew, like most people, had to learn for himself.
At first Catcrina haunted the march for him, sleeping or waking,
but even twenty-four hours made a little difference, not in the
honesty of his grief but in its power to obliterate the rest of the
universe. Certain things must be done, certain motions gone
through. The constant activity of body, the uncertain imminence
of danger, left no time for that luxurious melancholy which feeds
upon a full stomach and an empty mind. Enforcedly, he began
to live in the world again— the resurrection was painful and
gradual enough but, once begun, it continued implacably.

6.

Four days later, the picture on the highway had changed some-
what in details but not in the whole. The same slow stream of
humanity clotted the road, taking it easy to all appearances, yet
stirring the dust relentlessly with passing feet. A child had died,

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Spanish Bayonet

another child had been born. The dead lay buried by the road-
side, four men carried the new mother and her charge on an
improvised litter toward the rear of the column. Tomorrow, or
the next day, she would be back in the ranks again. The talk was
less continual, faces showed fatigue, feet went limping. But
what talk there was seemed cheerful, and those who fell behind
for a while straggled back into line eventually, some stronger
impulse than fear urging them on.

Andrew and Sebastian were at the head of the column when
they sighted the cavalry-patrol.

It was a small force, some twenty men in all, commanded by
a tall, leathery captain with a London drawl, who kept blowing
his nose on a lace handkerchief because of the dust and then
looking around savagely at his men to try and catch a smile on
their faces. He commenced to shout at the Minorcans in abom-
inable Spanish when they were yet some distance away, and
though both Sebastian and Andrew called back in English, it
seemed to make no impression on his mind for a long time.

"Damn my boots, what a precious lot of ragamuffins! " Andrew
could hear him saying to himself as they approached. "You can't
talk their lingo, can you, sergeant? I thought not— a pretty affair,
damn my boots, to send a gentleman with his Majesty's com-
mission to shepherd a pack of mutinous blackguards into town.
If the Governor were of my mind, he'd shoot down every last
man jack of them in the ditch of the fort, by pox and thunder
—don't you think so, sergeant? Hey, you there, the man with the
dirty shirt—" he called suddenly as Andrew came nearer, "can
you talk English? Damn my boots he's staring at me like a
codfish— why don't you salute an officer, man? Stap me, the
creature stinks in the wind like Billingsgate fish-market! Talk
English, fellow! Parlay English, Anglish— yes— no?" he howled
abruptly at Andrew from a distance of five paces, as if Andrew,
being a foreigner, must be stone-deaf.

It did not surprise Andrew to be taken for one of the Minorcans.
With a ten days' beard on his face and his skin burned by the
sun, he could have passed for a scavenger. He was only surprised
when the captain, after a few interchanges, grew fairly civil on
the whole. He was like other English officers Andrew had known,
apparently in a continual sweat of puzzled exasperation when-
ever he had a task to accomplish, and yet somehow getting the

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Stephen Vincent Benet

task done with a certain slack efficiency that seemed to surprise
himself. His bloodthirstiness was entirely a matter of conversa-
tion. Andrew saw him later in the day with a fat Minorcan
two-year-old on the saddle before him and an expression of
weary fury on his face, muttering savagely, "Damn my boots,
you think you're a fine whelp, don't you—a fine little piece of
mutiny to boil for officers' soup— how he claws at me, damme
sergeant! I think I'd better drop him in the road and break his
head." But his arm was tightly clutched around the child, and
the child was squeaking delightedly as it pulled at the horse's
mane.

Andrew made himself as inconspicuous as possible during the
rest of the march and did not attempt to interview the captain
till it was ended. A year ago he would have done so at once,
without thinking how strange his important talk of the house of
Alexander Beard and Son would sound on the lips of a dirty,
unshaven boy. Now he knew his cue was self-effacement till he
could get to the Governor. From the talk of the patrol he
gathered that His Excellency was at least not ill-disposed toward
the Minorcans and intended to give them a chance to state their
case. But he and Sebastian stood in a different position from the
rest of the host.

The other Minorcans could come into court with hands clean
of anything but a bloodless rebellion against an unjust employer.
Sebastian and he had been charged with murder and treason-
Sebastian had killed Mr. Cave— both had broken prison— to mix
their grievance with the general one would only impair the
latter's chance of redress. On the other hand, if the Governor
were really Dr. Gentian's foe, Andrew's testimony, being that
of an Englishman, might clinch the matter definitely in the
Minorcans' favor. He had plenty of time to think the matter
through from every angle, and decided finally, that his best
course was to keep his identity hidden till the end of the march
came.

They were camped on the outskirts of St. Augustine at last.
The captain had held a long interview with the prominent men
of the colony. In the afternoon, the Governor would ride out
to see them. Meanwhile, they must be patient. A small ration-

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party might go into town, but the main body was to remain in
camp and fraternize as little as possible with the townspeople.
He gave his word for the safe-conduct of the ration-party and
his assurance that if these conditions were fulfilled, the Governor
would grant them a fair and open hearing.

Then he solemnly posted sentries between the camp and the
town. It was purely for effect— both he and the Minorcans knew
that if the five hundred wished they could brush aside the sentries
and descend on the town like locusts. But, being for effect, it
served. Hemmed in by a larger force, the Minorcans would have
begun to mill like frightened cattle. As it was they settled down
quietly enough, the women to tending their children, the men
to listen to the boy with the cracked guitar or to try and repair
gear damaged on the road.

Now, thought Andrew, the time had come for him to make
his stroke. He asked to speak with the captain in private and in
a few words stated his name and his wish for an interview
with the Governor.

"Damn my boots and breeches," said the captain, staring at
him keenly, while his hand drummed on the pommel of his
saddle, "I thought you spoke odd English for a Spaniard— but,
body of hell, what a tale! I wouldn't have believed— to be frank,
sir, even for a gentleman in straits, you make a damned queer
appearance, if you'll excuse the remark."

"My grandfather carried a pack," said Andrew, deliberately,
smiling. The dream of the Beards of Westmoreland departed
forever as he said it, leaving no scar behind. He might play the
exquisite again, when he had money and clean clothes, but never
without a certain feeling of masquerade. In theory, one could
always tell a gentleman, no matter how dirty he was— in prac-
tice, the matter seemed a trifle more complicated.

"Oh, well—" said the captain, apparently somewhat relieved.
He stared at Andrew again. "It sounds so damnable odd," he
confessed frankly. "Of course you'll have some acquaintance in
the city to—." He waved his hand.

Andrew thought. He could hardly call on any of the gentle-
men he had met at Judge Willo's to bear out his story— they were
all Dr. Gentian's intimates.

"The Governor might remember me, if I were shaved," he

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Stephen Vincent Benet

said slowly, "and then— is the Pride of the Colonies still in port?
Captain Stout would recognize me, I know."

"Oh, if that's your man!" said the captain, "Captain Stout's
the Governor now, I imagine—he's had the devil of a time
getting cargo— and then the Governor's been holding him back
to question him about this insurrection in the North. He sails
this afternoon— you may catch him at the Governor's if you make
haste. Sergeant— Sergeant— " he called peevishly, "whcre's one
of those damned horses? I want to mount this man and send him
to the Governor."

He turned sharply to Andrew. "You watch yourself in the
town," he said. "They're going to burn some of your rebels in
effigy in the square today— silly nuisance burning fellows in
effigy, but looks damned well as an expression of loyalty in a
report"— and he laughed like a fox barking.

"Sergeant— take this man into town with you and see he gets
to His Excellency."

"Shall I tie him, sir? " said the sergeant, stolidly, saluting.

"Damn your boots, no. Why are you such a damned old fool?
You can knock him on the head if he tries any tricks," he added
thoughtfully, "but don't tie him now."

8.

So Andrew, for the second time, presented to the streets of
St. Augustine a queer and disreputable figure, under the hot sun.
But this time, though he was ragamuffin indeed, he cared not at
all where at first he had cared so greatly. He scuffed his broken
shoes in his stirrups, comfortably, and was only interested to note
that a little tail of pointing, giggling children followed himself
and the sergeant to the Governor's door.

"He see the Governor!" said a dewlapped Paunch with an
arnber-topped cane, regarding Andrew with evident disgust.
"He can't see the Governor! Ridiculous, sergeant! The Gov-
ernor's closeted— even if he were not— the fellow's far too foul."

"Captain Strahan's orders. To see His Excellency at once,"
repeated the sergeant metallically. Andrew gathered that he
did not like the Paunch.

"Captain Strahan's orders?" yammered the Paunch, nervously.

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Spanish Bayonet

"Well, why didn't you say it was Captain Strahan's orders— if
you'd said it was Captain Strahan's—"

The Paunch's importance had shrunk-rhe was bustling away
through a door.

"Silly old capon," said the sergeant, devastatingly, with the
air of one who spits to relieve his mind.

The Paunch was back again, ushering Andrew along with fat,
fluttering hands. The sergeant clanked after them.

"No tricks," he was muttering. "Captain's orders. No tricks at
all."

Then a door was flung open and Andrew stumbled into a big,
cool room where two men were facing each other across a desk.
Both looked up as he entered. The next moment a chair went to
the floor with a crash— and the hard paws of Captain Stout were
gripping both his hands.

It was later. Andrew and the Governor were alone. He had
told his story in detail, with certain suppressions, chiefly involv-
ing Sparta and the killing of Mr. Cave. The Governor had put
a number of questions, most of them in regard to things that
seemed to Andrew of little importance. Now at last he seemed
satisfied.

Andrew had tried to gage him during the interview. He was
a narrow man and a. touchy one, but he seemed honest. Of his
long-banked hate of Dr. Gentian there could be no doubt what-
ever—it showed in every line of his face when the name came up.
Andrew's description of the conditions at New Sparta had seemed
to shock him genuinely, though not quite in the way that Andrew
had expected. He seemed much more shocked, for instance, at
Dr. Gentian's failure to inform him fully that he had arrested
Andrew as a traitor.

"It won't do," he kept saying. "Won't do; man must be mad.
Political prisoners should be brought before me at once."

"Well, sir!" said Andrew finally, when there seemed to be no
more questions the Governor wished to ask.

The Governor fiddled with his inkstand a moment. Then
he looked at Andrew.

"You've put me in a queer position, Mr. Beard," he said at
length. "Oh, I don't doubt your story. It only confirms what I've
suspected, ever since the colony started— but my predecessor was

Stephen Vincent Benet

a firm friend of Dr. Gentian's and—" He frowned. "Damn it, if
I could only put you in the witness-box," he burst out. "As it is,
I half-wish you'd never come to see me at all."

"I'm sorry," said Andrew. It seemed the only possible remark.

"Oh, don't apologize," said the Governor, worriedly. "After all
you've done me a service. My mind's made up now. Oh, I've no
doubt the Minorcans would have proved their point in any case,
but your tale clinches it for me. They shall have their rights,
Mr. Beard. I'll settle them here— God knows a couple of hundred
good workers will be a godsend to the town. But now, Mr.
Beard." He rapped on the desk. "What are we going to do with
you?"

"I am quite at your disposal sir," said Andrew, drawing a vast
breath of relief.

"No, no," said the Governor, querulously, "that's just what
you can't be. If you stay here, some of Gentian's friends are sure
to stir up trouble about that absurd charge of treason he's
brought against you." He smiled. "Officially, Mr. Beard, I have
not as yet, as I say, been informed of that charge through the
proper channels. But if someone here should take it into his
head to lodge a direct accusation— I should have to notice it— yes
—I should have to notice it— I should have to hold you for
examination, Mr. Beard— and then, damn it, the moment I do"
—he exploded again, "the fat's in the fire and the whole Minorcan
case is muddled with yours."

"Of course, sir, if you wish to"— began Andrew, slowly.

"Examine you? In God's name, why?" said the Governor,
brusquely. "I know your father's name— Captain Stout's told me
of the sacrifices he s already made for the Crown." Captain
Stout had obviously omitted any mention of Lucius, and Andrew
was very grateful. "If you were a traitor, why the devil would
you be sitting here talking to me?" the Governor ended. The
question seemed unanswerable, and Andrew himself began to
wonder why.

"No, Mr. Beard," the Governor went on. "The charge against
you is absurd, but it must not be pressed. I've no doubt Captain
Stout will trust your father's son /or a passage to New York.
When you reach there, you will, naturally, join the army. They
say De Lancey's raising a troop of loyalist horse— well, Mr.
Beard, there's my advice, unofficially. Do you find it reasonable?"

Spanish Bayonet

"Most reasonable, your Excellency," said Andrew, with a slight
smile. "I shall, as you say, return to New York at once— and join
the army."

"Good," said the Governor, rising. "I shan't ask you for a
deposition, Mr. Beard— it will be best if your name is not brought
in at all. You'll find Captain Stout in the anteroom— and I should
advise you going aboard at once, if I may suggest it."

"I have to say good-by to a friend," said Andrew. "After that
I shall go aboard as soon as possible."

"A friend?" said the Governor. "Oh, yes— the Minorcan boy
who was in prison with you. I wish we could get him away
too. He'll only serve to confuse things— and I want a clear case."
He looked at Andrew.

"Perhaps it can be managed," said Andrew, thanking his gods
for the narrow strength of the Governor's hate of Dr. Gentian,
that now blinded him to everything but the prospect of the
lattcr's ruin. "Good day, your Excellency— and thank you."

"Good day, Mr. Beard, and a safe voyage," said the Governor,
turning back to his papers, and Andrew bowed and retreated
from the lion's jaws.

He had arranged to meet Sebastian in the Plaza, near noon, if
Sebastian could get leave from the ration party— and it was there
he now proceeded with Captain Stout. The matter of his passage
was settled— Captain Stout had offered it, before he had had
time to speak. He mentioned Sebastian. "Body servant, too, I'm
sure," said Captain Stout, amicably, and Andrew thought it best
not to explain further at present. He looked at Captain Stout as
they walked along, trying to read his political opinions in his
face, but he could make nothing out of those weathered features.

Fooling the Governor or letting him fool himself was one
thing; he did not like the idea of fooling Captain Stout. But then,
even yet— was he quite sure of his own intent? He had been quite
sure; but in the Governor's room, with its air of power and order
long established, the old colors of things had crept back to them
insensibly, making a world where rebels were rebels and no
gentleman in his wits thought of fighting for anything but a
king. He sighed, cursing himself for a vacillation he could not

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help—habit and custom are strong chains. But he was a shop-
keeper's son, not a gentleman in his wits . . . oh, well, look at
the people in the streets and put off thinking for a while. The
narrow streets were crowded with people going to the Plaza;
when they came to the Plaza, it was crowded too.

"Is this a fiesta day?" he asked of his companion.

"Not exactly,'* said the captain, slowly. "They were talking
about burning some Guy Fawkses or something—I'm as glad my
boys are on board except for the boat's crew—"

Then Andrew remembered. The demonstration of loyalty.
He saw a pile of wood in the center of the square and was
horribly reminded of another such pile of wood he had helped
to build. His heart began to pound. He wanted to get away. But
Sebastian must be found first— ah, there he was, standing in the
mouth of an alleyway. Andrew threw up his hand and called out
over the sea of heads. Sebastian heard him, turned, waved back,
and started to worm his way toward them, as a ragged shout
went up from the other side of the square.

A drum was beating, a voice was calling, "Make way! Make
way!" The crowd chattered and jostled. From the cramped
mouth of the street on the other side of the square a procession
debouched, the crowd fell away before it. Andrew felt Captain
Stout's grip tighten on his arm. Now the head of the procession
was out in the square itself— a rout of men dressed in sorry rags
of carnival. Some had faces blacked with soot, like boys on Guy
Fawkes' Day, others wore painted ludicrous masks. They were
singing and shouting— the crowd roared its approval— the front
ranks pressed back on the toes of those behind to leave a clear
path to the woodpile in the center.

Then Andrew heard himself saying, "Damn you! Damn you
all!" in a hurried whisper, as the effigies came into sight. There
were two of them, great lolling dummies of straw, absurdly
garbed, borne high on the shoulders of the crowd. They had
halters around their necks, before them marched a man with a
butcherlike face, dressed in hangman's black. A rope was slung
over his arm and he carried a placard on a pole— "Death to all
traitors!" in Spanish and English. There were other placards
in the crowd, and two signs flapped at the bellies of the dum-
mies. Andrew could make them out now, "Jackie Hancock"—
"Sammy Adams"—

Spanish Bayonet

A gratified whoop went up from the crowd at the sight of
the dummies. A big, sweating woman with a large pink chamber-
pot in her hand skipped nimbly out of the crowd and flung the
contents of the vessel in the face of the dummy marked "Adams,"
with a shrill, joyous scream, splattering its bearers.

Andrew wrenched himself loose from Captain Stout's hand.
"Stop it— stop it— you Spanish bastards—" he was crying, with
tears of rage in his eyes. He saw a thousand grinning faces turned
toward him, and struck at the nearest wildly, fighting and going
down.

10.

A young man with a newly-broken head lay in a tossing
bunk in the cabin of a ship at sea, and began to feel the first
qualms of seasickness taint his relative content. He stirred, and
said as much.

"Means you've come out of it nicely," said Captain Stout,
bending over him. "You'll be pleased to know, Mr. Beard—
the man that hit you with the stick'll carry a thick ear some
time yet," he added.

"I acted like a fool," said Andrew. "I don't see how you got
away. But I couldn't stand the woman."

"There," said the Captain, soothingly. "It's natteral. Young
blood's hot. / wasn't too pleased," he went on. "No, we wasn't
any of us too pleased with the goings on. Told 'em you were
one of my crew with a touch of sun. They swallowed it. I
wanted to tell them something else. But you'll thank your Spanish
friend— I couldn't have got you off alone— let alone talk their
jabber fast enough—"

"What happened to him?" said Andrew feebly.

"He's here." The Captain chuckled. "Ain't you, Spanish?"

"Si senor" came a voice from the upper bunk. "But sick as
a soldier. How are you, my friend?"

"Much as you are," said Andrew, and laughed. "I'm glad you're
here, Sebastian."

"Gracias" said the voice from above. "We changed knives—
I follow my knife. Besides," he added, after a moment, "I, too,
have a certain desire to help the donkey we spoke of kick off his
rider. The rider wears too red a coat to suit me."

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Stephen Vincent Benet

"What about you, Captain?" said Andrew, after a pause.

"Oh, we're all liberty-boys, now," said the Captain, with a
casual chuckle. "Didn't say so before, you being your father's
son; but we're all liberty-boys on the Pride now— if I didn't tell
the Governor. Lord, I thought he'd have me a dozen times, but
I never saw a soldier that wasn't a turniphead."

"Does my father know you're a liberty-boy, sir?" said Andrew,
smiling.

"Not yet," said the Captain. "That'll go hard, it will. Well, I
thought I'd do my duty by him, this last time. And then, if it's
going to be as long a war as I reckon it, what's the harm in doing
a bit of trading first?" He spat out the porthole. "Seem queer at
the start, going counter to old King George," he added thought-
fully. "Not that I've ever seen the man, but I've always had a
sort of picture of him. Well, life's unexpected and that's a fact."
He seemed to take comfort in the truism.

"They've got a flag with a rattlesnake on it," he continued.
"Liberty or Death. It'll be queer to raise it. The Pride's had
British colors up ever since she was launched. She's used to them.
Well, she'll have to learn new ways. I hope she'll like them, but
I'm doubtful." He shook his head.

"We'll all have to get used to new ways," said Andrew. He
stared into the future, trying to pierce it, but he could see nothing.
It did not matter, his own course was plain.

"How long will it take us, Captain?" he said.

"Couldn't say, Mr. Beard, but the rumpus'll still be going
when we get back. The lobsters think it won't, but it will. You
see, King George Third's gone too far—and we mean to break
loose now. That makes the difference."

"I suppose so," said Andrew, lying back and thinking of all
that had passed since he last lay in a ship's bunk. What had he
got from all of it— what had he done? The Minorcans had
rescued themselves— he had not even killed Mr. Cave. Caterina—
he had not thought much of that mound in the little cove since
they had left it, he had not had time or strength. He thought
of it now. She had saved him, her he had been unable to save.
He had only been able to leave a part of his youth where she
lay, for the wind to blow off like ash. Even now he was not
sure that he had loved her, as he understood love—nor could he
see her his, in life, by any fantasy of mind. There had been a spell

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between them—an incantation— it had worked itself out and
passed— gone back beyond the moon. For the last time, as the
ship tossed and the sea grew rougher, the shape of the Spanish
bayonet arose in his mind, with its thorns and its white flower,
incongruous, enchanted, pure.

Out of all the confused and brilliant turmoil of the past year
that visionary semblance alone remained steadfast— that semblance
and his friend Sebastian— perhaps they were enough.

Yet he trembled, hurt and aching, uncomforted by the knowl-
edge that hurt and ache would pass, as in time they would, and
become only a colored memory, a ghost of perfume. Now he only
knew that he wanted to hear Caterina's voice, and that she was
dead. But even at the worst of this bitterness, other thoughts
came— New York— Lucius— a musket— a rebel army—a lion and a
unicorn hunted through green Massachusetts woods. In a short
while, unconsciously, he found himself seeing Sebastian and a
boy with his own face cooking hominy on a griddle over a
soldier's campfire. His inexperience of war lent the picture a
plausibility, a charm almost. The risen sun cast a broad path of
illusion at the feet of the two figures, the blue smoke of the fire
fluttered, there was a smell of burning leaves in the air. Soon
enough the drum would assert its sharp, monotonous scorn.

"Well, sir," said the Captain, "you'll be feeling better tomor-
row.'5 He was going now. "No objection to your Spanish friend
bunking in with you?"

"No. He's my friend," said Andrew, as if in explanation of
more than the question had asked. "Good night, Captain."

"Good night, Mr. Beard. You'll find dirty weather when you
get up tomorrow— it's coming on to blow,"

257

TALES OF OUR TIME

Tales of Our Time

TOO EARLY SPRING

I'M writing this down because I don't ever want to forget the
way it was. It doesn't seem as if I could, now, but they all tell
you things change. And I guess they're right. Older people must
have forgotten or they couldn't be the way they are. And that
goes for even the best ones, like Dad and Mr. Grant. They try to
understand but they don't seem to know how. And the others
make you feel dirty or else they make you feel like a goof. Till,
pretty soon, you begin to forget yourself—you begin to think,
"Well, maybe they're right and it was that way." And that's the
end of everything. So I've got to write this down. Because they
smashed it forever— but it wasn't the way they said.

Mr. Grant always says in comp. class: "Begin at the beginning."
Only I don't know quite where the beginning was. We had a
good summer at Big Lake but it was just the same summer. I
worked pretty hard at the practice basket I rigged up in the barn,
and I learned how to do the back jackknife. I'll never dive like
Kerry but you want to be as all-around as you can. And, when
I took my measurements, at the end of the summer, I was 5 ft.
p% and I'd gained 12 Ibs. 6 oz. That isn't bad for going on six-
teen and the old chest expansion was O. K. You don't want to
get too heavy, because basketball's a fast game, but the year be-
fore was the year when I got my height, and I was so skinny, I
got tired. But this year, Kerry helped me practice, a couple of
times, and he seemed to think I had a good chance for the team.
So I felt pretty set up— they'd never had a Sophomore on it before.
And Kerry's a natural athlete, so that means a lot from him.
He's a pretty good brother too. Most Juniors at State wouldn't
bother with a fellow in High.

It sounds as if I were trying to run away from what I have
to write down, but I'm not. I want to remember that summer,

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too, because it's the last happy one I'll ever have. Oh, when I'm
an old man— thirty or forty— things may be all right again. But
that's a long time to wait and it won't be the same.

And yet, that summer was different, too, in a way. So it must
have started then, though I didn't know it. I went around with
the gang as usual and we had a good time. But, every now and
then, it would strike me we were acting like awful kids. They
thought I was getting the big head, but I wasn't. It just wasn't
much fun— even going to the cave. It was like going on shooting
marbles when you're in High.

I had sense enough not to try to tag after Kerry and his
crowd. You can't do that. But when they all got out on the lake
in canoes, warm evenings, and somebody brought a phonograph
along, I used to go down to the Point, all by myselr, and listen
and listen. Maybe they'd be talking or maybe they'd be singing,
but it all sounded mysterious across the water. I wasn't trying to
hear what they said, you know. That's the kind of thing Tot
Pickens does. I'd just listen, with my arms around my knees— and
somehow it would hurt me to listen— and yet I'd rather do that
than be with the gang.

I was sitting under the four pines, one night, right down by
the edge of the water. There was a big moon and they were
singing. It's funny how you gan be unhappy and nobody know
it but yourself.

I was thinking about Sheila Coe. She's Kerry's girl. They fight
but they get along. She's awfully pretty and she can swim like
a fool. Once Kerry sent me over with her tennis racket and we
had quite a conversation. She was fine. And she didn't pull any
of this big sister stuff, either, the way some girls will with a
fellow's kid brother.

And when the canoe came along, by the edge of the lake, I
thought for a moment it was her. I thought maybe she was
looking for Kerry and maybe she'd stop and maybe she'd feel
like talking to me again. I don't know why I thought that— I
didn't have any reason. Then I saw it was just the Sharon kid,
with a new kind of bob that made her look grown-up, and I felt
sore. She didn't have any business out on the lake at her age.
She was just a Sophomore in High, the same as ime.

I chunked a stone in the water and it splashed right by the

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Too Early Spring

canoe, but she didn't squeal. She just said, "Fish," and chuckled.
It struck me it was a kid's trick, trying to scare a kid.

"Hello, Helen," I said. "Where did you swipe the gunboat?"

"They don't know I've got it," she said. "Oh, hello, Chuck
Peters. How's Big Lake?"

"All right," I said. "How was camp?"

"It was peachy," she said. "We had a peachy counselor, Miss
Morgan. She was on the Wellesley field-hockey team."

"Well," I said, "we missed your society." Of course we hadn't,
because they're across the lake and don't swim at our raft. But
you ought to be polite.

"Thanks," she said. "Did you do the special reading for Eng-
lish? I thought it was dumb."

"It's always dumb," I said. "What canoe is that?"

"It's the old one," she said. "I'm not supposed to have it out at
night. But you won't tell anybody, will you?"

"Be your age," I said. I felt generous. "I'll paddle a while, if
you want," I said.

"All right," she said, so she brought it in and I got aboard. She
went back in the bow and I took the paddle. I'm not strong on
carting kids around, as a rule. But it was better than sitting there
by myself.

"Where do you want to go?" I said.

"Oh, back towards the house," she said in a shy kind of voice.
"I ought to, really. I just wanted to hear the singing."

"K. O.," I said. I didn't paddle fast, just let her slip. There
was a lot of moon on the water. We kept around the edge so
they wouldn't notice us. The singing sounded as if it came from
a different country, a long way off.

She was a sensible kid, she didn't ask fool questions or giggle
about nothing at all. Even when we went by Fetters' Cove. That's
where the lads from the bungalow colony go and it's pretty well
populated on a warm night. You can hear them talking in low
voices and now and then a laugh. Once Tot Pickens and a gang
went over there with a flashlight, and a big Bohunk chased them
for half a mile,

I felt funny, going by there with her. But I said, "Well, it's
certainly Old Home Week"— in an offhand tone, because, after
all, you've got to be sophisticated. And she said, "People are

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funny," in just the right sort of way. I took quite a shine to her
after that and we talked. The Sharons have only been in town
three years and somehow I'd never really noticed her before.
Mrs. Sharon's awfully good-looking but she and Mr. Sharon
fight. That's hard on a kic|. And she was a quiet kid. She had a
small kind of face and her eyes were sort of like a kitten's. You
could see she got a great kick out of pretending to be grown-up
—and yet it wasn't all pretending. A couple of times, I felt just
as if I were talking to Sheila Coe. Only more comfortable, be-
cause, after all, we were the same age.

Do you know, after we put the canoe up, I walked all the
way back home, around the lake? And most of the way, I ran.
I felt swell too. I felt as if I could run forever and not stop. It
was like finding something. I hadn't imagined anybody could
ever feel the way I did about some things. And here was another
person, even if it was a girl.

Kerry's door was open when I went by and he stuck his head
out, and grinned.

"Well, kid," he said. Stepping out?"

"Sure. With Greta Garbo," I said, and grinned back to show
I didn't mean it. I felt sort of lightheaded, with the run and
everything.

"Look here, kid—" he said, as if he was going to say some-
thing. Then he stopped. But there was a funny look on his face.

And yet I didn't see her again till we were both back in High.
Mr. Sharon's uncle died, back East, and they closed the cottage
suddenly. But all the rest of the time at Big Lake, I kept remem-
bering that night and her little face. If I'd seen her in daylight,
first, it might have been different. No, it wouldn't have been.

All the same, I wasn't even thinking of her when we bumped
into each other, the first day of school. It was raining and she
had on a green slicker and her hair was curly under her hat. We
grinned and said hello and had to run. But something happened
to us, I guess.

I'll say this now— it wasn't like Tot Pickens and Mabel Palmer.
It wasn't like Junior David and Betty Page— though they've been
going together ever since kindergarten. It wasn't like any of those
things. We didn't get sticky and sloppy. It wasn't like going with
a girl.

Gosh, there'd be days and days when we'd hardly see- each

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Too Early Spring

other, except in class. I had basketball practice almost every after-
noon and sometimes evenings and she was taking music lessons
four times a week. But you don't have to be always twos-ing with
a person, if you feel that way about them. You seem to know the
way they're thinking and feeling, the way you know yourself.

Now let me describe her. She had that little face and the eyes
like a kitten's. When it rained, her hair curled all over the back
of her neck. Her hair was yellow. She wasn't a tall girl but she
wasn't chunky—just light and well made and quick. She was
awfully alive without being nervous— she never bit her finger-
nails or chewed the end of her pencil, but she'd answer quicker
than anyone in the class. Nearly everybody liked her, but she
wasn't best friends with any particular girl, the mushy way they
get. The teachers all thought a lot of her, even Miss Eagles.
Well, I had to spoil that.

If we'd been like Tot and Mabel, we could have had a lot
more time together, I guess. But Helen isn't a liar and I'm not
a snake. It wasn't easy, going over to her house, because Mr.
and Mrs. Sharon would be polite to each other in front of you
and yet there'd be something wrong. And she'd have to be fair
to both of them and they were always pulling at her. But we'd
look at each other across the table and then it would be all right.

I don't know when it was that we knew we'd get married to
each other, some time. We just started talking about it, one day,
as if we always had. We were sensible, we knew it couldn't
happen right off. We thought maybe when we were eighteen.
That was two years but we knew we had to be educated. You
don't get as good a job, if you aren't. Or that's what people say.

We weren't mushy either, like some people. We got to kissing
each other good-by, sometimes, because that's what you do when
you're in love. It was cool, the way she kissed you, it was like
leaves. But lots of the time we wouldn't even talk about getting
married, we'd just play checkers or go over the old Latin, or once
in a while go to the movies with the gang. It was really a won-
derful winter. I played every game after the first one and she'd
sit in the gallery and watch and I'd know she was there. You
could see her little green hat or her yellow hair. Those are the
class colors, green and gold.

And it's a queer thing, but everybody seemed to be pleased.

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Stephen Vincent Benet

That's what I can't get over. They liked to see us together. The
grown people, I mean. Oh, of course, we got kidded too. And
old Mrs. Withers would ask me about "my little sweetheart," in
that awful damp voice of hers. But, mostly, they were all right.
Even Mother was all right, though she didn't like Mrs. Sharon.
I did hear her say to Father, once, "Really, George, how long is
this going to last? Sometimes I feel as if I just couldn't stand it."

Then Father chuckled and said to her, "Now, Mary, last
year you were worried about him because he didn't take any in-
terest in girls at all."

"Well," she said, "he still doesn't. Oh, Helen's a nice child-no
credit to Eva Sharon— and thank heaven she doesn't giggle. Well,
Charles is mature for his age too. But he acts so solemn about
her. It isn't natural."

"Oh, let Charlie alone," said Father. "The boy's all right. He's
just got a one-track mind."

But it wasn't so nice for us after the spring came.

In our part of the state, it comes pretty late, as a rule. But it
was early this year. The little kids were out with scooters when
usually they'd still be having snowfights and, all of a sudden, the
radiators in the classrooms smelt dry. You'd got used to that
smell for months— and then, there was a day when you hated it
again and everybody kept asking to open the windows. The
monitors had a tough time, that first week— they always do when
spring starts— but this year it was worse than ever because it came
when you didn't expect it.

Usually, basketball's over by the time spring really breaks, but
this year it hit us while we still had three games to play. And it
certainly played hell with us as a team. After Bladesburg nearly
licked us, Mr. Grant called off all practice till the day before the
St. Matthew's game. He knew we were stale— and they've been
state champions two years. They'd have walked all over us, the
way we were going.

The first thing I did was telephone Helen. Because that meant
there were six extra afternoons we could have, if she could get
rid of her music lessons any way. Well, she said, wasn't it won-
derful, her music teacher had a cold? And that seemed just like
Fate.

Well, that was a great week and we were so happy. We went

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Too Early Spring

to the movies five times and once Mrs. Sharon let us take her little
car. She knew I didn't have a driving license but of course I've
driven ever since I was thirteen and she said it was all right. She
was funny— sometimes she'd be awfully kind and friendly to you
and sometimes she'd be like a piece of dry ice. She was that way
with Mr. Sharon too. But it was a wonderful ride. We got stuff
out of the kitchen—the cook's awfully sold on Helen— and drove
way out in the country. And we found an old house, with the
windows gone, on top of a hill, and parked the car and took
the stuff up to the house and ate it there. There weren't any
chairs or tables but we pretended there were.

We pretended it was our house, after we were married. I'll
never forget that. She'd even brought paper napkins and paper
plates and she set two places on the floor.

"Well, Charles," she said, sitting opposite me, with her feet
tucked under, "I don't suppose you remember the days we were
both in school."

"Sure," I said— she was always much quicker pretending things
than I was— "I remember them all right. That was before Tot
Pickens got to be President." And we both laughed.

"It seems very distant in the past to me— we've been married
so long," she said, as if she really believed it. She looked at me.

"Would you mind turning off the radio, dear?" she said. "This
modern music always gets on my nerves."

"Have we got a radio?" I said.

"Of course, Chuck."

"With television?"

"Of course, Chuck."

"Gee, I'm glad," I said. I went and turned it off.

"Of course, if you 'want to listen to the late market reports—"
she said just like Mrs. Sharon.

"Nope," I said. "The market— uh— closed firm today. Up
twentyt-six points."

"That's quite a long way up, isn't it?"

"Well, the country's perfectly sound at heart, in spite of this
damnfool Congress," I said, like Father.

She lowered her eyes a minute, just like her mother, and
pushed away her plate.

"I'm not very hungry tonight," .she said. "You won't mind if
I go upstairs?"

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Stephen Vincent Benet

"Aw, don't be like that," I said. It was too much like her
mother.

"I was just seeing if I could/' she said. uBut I never will,
Chuck."

"I'll never tell you you're nervous, either," I said. "I— oh, gosh!"

She grinned and it was all right. "Mr. Ashland and I have
never had a serious dispute in our wedded lives," she said— and
everybody knows who runs that family. "We just talk things
over calmly and reach a satisfactory conclusion, usually mine."

"Say, what kind of house have we got?"

"It's a lovely house," she said. "We've got radios in every
room and lots of servants. We've got a regular movie projector
and a library full of good classics and there's always something in
the icebox. I've got a shoe closet."

"A what?"

"A shoe closet. All my shoes are on tipped shelves, like
Mother's. And all my dresses arc on those padded hangers. And I
say to the maid, 'Elsie, Madam will wear the new French model
today.' "

"What are my clothes on?" I said. "Christmas trees?"

"Well," she said. "You've got lots of clothes and dogs. You
smell of pipes and the open and something called Harrisburg
tweed."

"I do not," I said. "I wish I had a dog. It's a long time since
Jack."

"Oh, Chuck, I'm sorry," she said.

"Oh, that's all right," I said. "He was getting old and his ear
was always bothering him. But he was a good pooch. Go ahead."

"Well," she said, "of course we give parties—"

"Cut the parties," I said.

"Chuck! They're grand ones!"

"I'm a homebody," I said. "Give me— er— my wife and my little
family and— say, how many kids have we got, anyway?"

She counted on her fingers. "Seven."

"Good Lord," I said.

"Well, I always wanted seven. You can make it three, if you
like."

"Oh, seven's all right, I suppose," I said. "But don't they get
awfully in the way?"

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Too Early Spring

"No," she said. "We have governesses and tutors and send them
to boarding school."

"O. K.," I said. "But it's a strain on the old man's pocketbook,
just the same."

"Chuck, will you ever talk like that? Chuck, this is when we're
rich." Then suddenly, she looked sad. "Oh, Chuck, do you sup-
pose we ever will?" she said.

"Why, sure," I said.

"I wouldn't mind if it was only a dump," she said. "I could
cook for you. I keep asking Hilda how she makes things."

I felt awfully funny. I felt as if I were going to cry.

"We'll do it," I said. "Don't you worry."

"Oh, Chuck, you're a comfort," she said.

I held her for a while. It was like holding something awfully
precious. It wasn't mushy or that way. I know what that's like
too.

"It takes so long to get old," she said. "I wish I could grow up
tomorrow. I wish we both could."

"Don't you worry," I said. "It's going to be all right."

We didn't say much, going back in the car, but we were happy
enough. I thought we passed Miss Eagles at the turn. That
worried me a little because of the driving license. But, after all,
Mrs. Sharon had said we could take the car.

We wanted to go back again, after that, but it was too far to
walk and that was the only time we had the car. Mrs. Sharon
was awfully nice about it but she said, thinking it over, maybe
we'd better wait till I got a license. Well, Father didn't want me
to get one till I was seventeen but I thought he might come
around. I didn't want to do anything that would get Helen in
a jam with her family. That shows how careful I was of her. Or
thought I was.

All the same, we decided we'd do something to celebrate if the
team won the St. Matthew's game. We thought it would be fun
if we could get a steak and cook supper out somewhere— some-
thing like that. Of course we could have done it easily enough
with a gang, but we didn't want a gang. We wanted to be alone
together, the way we'd been at the house. That was all we
wanted. I don't see what's wrong about that. We even took home
the paper plates, so as not to litter things up.

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Stephen Vincent Benet

Boy, that was a game! We beat them 36-34 and it took an extra
period and I thought it would never end. That two-goal lead
they had looked as big as the Rocky Mountains all the first half.
And they gave me the full school cheer with nine Peters when
we tied them up. You don't forget things like that.

Afterwards, Mr. Grant had a kind of spread for the team at his
house and a lot of people came in. Kerry had driven down from
State to see the game and that made me feel pretty swell. And
what made me feel better yet was his taking me aside and say-
ing, "Listen, kid, I don't want you to get the swelled head, but
you did a good job. Well, just remember this. Don't let anybody
kid you out of going to State. You'll like it up there." And Mr.
Grant heard him and laughed and said, "Well, Peters, I'm not
proselytizing. But your brother might think about some of the
Eastern colleges." It was all like the kind of dream you have
when you can do anything. It was wonderful.

Only Helen wasn't there because the only girls were older
girls. I'd seen her for a minute, right after the game, and she was
fine, but it was only a minute. I wanted to tell her about that
big St. Matthew's forward and— oh, everything. Well, you like
to talk things over with your girl.

Father and Mother were swell but they had to go on to some
big shindy at the country club. And Kerry was going there with
Sheila Coe. But Mr. Grant said he'd run me back to the house in
his car and he did. He's a great guy. He made jokes about my
being the infant phenomenon of basketball, and they were good
jokes too. I didn't mind them. But, all the same, when I'd said
good night to him and gone into the house, I felt sort of let down.

I knew I'd be tired the next day but I didn't feel sleepy yet. I
was too excited. I wanted to talk to somebody. I wandered
around downstairs and wondered if Ida was still up. Well, she
wasn't, but she'd left half a chocolate cake, covered over, on
the kitchen table, and a note on top of it, "Congratulations to
Mister Charles Peters." Well, that was awfully nice of her and I
ate some. Then I turned the radio on and got the time signal-
eleven— and some snappy music. But still I didn't feel like hitting
the hay.

So I thought I'd call up Helen and then I thought-probably
she's asleep and Hilda or Mrs. Sharon will answer the phone and
be sore. And then I thought— well, anyhow, I could go over and

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Too Early Spring

walk around the block and look at her house. Fd get some fresh
air out of it, anyway, and it would be a little like seeing her.

So I did— and it was a swell night— cool and a lot of stars—
and I felt like a king, walking over. All the lower part of the
Sharon house was dark but a window upstairs was lit. I knew it
was her window. I went around back of the driveway and whis-
tled once—the whistle we made up. I never expected her to hear.

But she did, and there she was at the window, smiling. She
made motions that she'd come down to the side door.

Honestly, it took my breath away when I saw her. She had on
a kind of yellow thing over her night clothes and she looked so
pretty. Her feet were so pretty in those slippers. You almost
expected her to be carrying, one of those animals that kids like—
she looked young enough. I know I oughtn't to have gone into
the house. But we didn't think anything about it— we were just
glad to see each other. We hadn't had any sort of chance to talk
over the game.

We sat in front of the fire in the living room and she went
out to the kitchen and got us cookies and rnilk. I wasn't really
hungry, but it was like that time at the house, eating with her.
Mr. and Mrs. Sharon were at the country club, too, so we weren't
disturbing them or anything. We turned off the lights because
there was plenty of light from the fire and Mr. Sharon's one of
those people who can't stand having extra lights burning. Dad's
that way about saving string.

It was quiet and lovely and the firelight made shadows on the
ceiling. We talked a lot and then we just sat, each of us knowing
the other was there. And the room got quieter and quieter and
I'd told her about the game and I didn't feel excited or jumpy any
more— just rested and happy. And then I knew by her breathing
that she was asleep and I put my arm around her for just a minute.
Because it was wonderful to hear that quiet breathing and know
it was hers. I was going to wake her in a minute. I didn't realize
how tired I was myself.

And then we were back in that house in the country and it
was our home and we ought to have been happy. But something
was wrong be'cause there still wasn't any glass in the windows
and a wind kept blowing through them and we tried to shut the
doors but they wouldn't shut. It drove Helen distracted and we
were both running through the house, trying to shut the doors,

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Stephen Vincent Benet

and we were cold and afraid. Then the sun rose outside the
windows, burning and yellow and so big it covered the sky. And
with the sun was a horrible, weeping voice. It was Mrs. Sharon's
saying, "Oh, my God, oh my God."

I didn't know what had happened, for a minute, when I woke.
And then I did and it was awful. Mrs. Sharon was saying "Oh,
Helen— I trusted you . . ." and looking as if she were going to
faint. And Mr. Sharon looked at her for a minute and his face
was horrible and he said, "Bred in the bone," and she looked as if
he'd hit her. Then he said to Helen—

I don't want to think of what they said. I don't want to think
of any of the things they said. Mr. Sharon is a bad man. And she
is a bad woman, even if she is Helen's mother. All the same, I
could stand the things he said better than hers.

I don't want to think of any of it. And it is all spoiled now.
Everything is spoiled. Miss Eagles saw us going to that house in
the country and she said horrible things. They made Helen sick
and she hasn't been back at school. There isn't any way I can see
her. And if I could, it would be spoiled. We'd be thinking about
the things they said.

I don't know how many of the people know, at school. But
Tot Pickens passed me a note. And, that afternoon, I caught him
behind his house. I'd have broken his nose if they hadn't pulled
me off. I meant to. Mother cried when she heard about it and
Dad took me into his room and talked to me. He said you can't
lick the whole town. But I will anybody like Tot Pickens. Dad
and Mother have been all right. But they say things about Helen
and that's almost worse. They're for me because I'm their son.
But they don't understand.

I thought I could talk to Kerry but I can't. He was nice but
he looked at me such a funny way. I don't know— sort of im-
pressed. It wasn't the way I wanted him to look. But he's been
decent. Fie comes down almost every weekend and we play catch
in the yard.

You see, I just go to school and back now. They want me to
go with the gang, the way I did, but I can't do that. Not after
Tot. Of course my marks are a lot better because I've got more
time to study now. But it's lucky I haven't got Miss Eagles
though Dad made her apologize. I couldn't recite to her.

I think Mr. Grant knows because he ask^d me to his house

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once and we had a conversation. Not about that, though I was
terribly afraid he would. He showed me a lot of his old college
things and the gold football he wears on his watch chain. He's
got a lot of interesting things.

Then we got talking, somehow, about history and things like
that and how times had changed. Why, there were kings and
queens who got married younger than Helen and me. Only now
we lived longer and had a lot more to learn. So it couldn't happen
now. "It's civilization," he said. "And all civilization's against
nature. But I suppose we've got to have it. Only sometimes it
isn't easy." Well somehow or other, that made me feel less
lonely. Before that I'd been feeling that I was the only person
on earth who'd ever felt that way.

I'm going to Colorado, this summer, to a ranch, and next year,
I'll go East to school. Mr. Grant says he thinks I can make the
basketball team, if I work hard enough, though it isn't as big a
game in the East as it is with us. Well, I'd like to show them
something. It would be some satisfaction. He says not to be
too fresh at first, but I won't be that.

It's a boys' school and there aren't even women teachers. And,
maybe, afterwards, I could be a professional basketball player or
something, where you don't have to see women at all. Kerry
says I'll get over that; but I won't. They all sound like Mrs.
Sharon to me now, when they laugh.

They're going to send Helen to a convent— I found out that.
Maybe they'll let me see her before she goes. But, if we do, it
will be all wrong and in front of people and everybody pretend-
ing. I sort of wish they don't— though I want to, terribly. When
her mother took her upstairs that night— she wasn't the same
Helen. She looked at me as if she was afraid of me. And no
matter what they do for us now, they can't fix that.

THE STORY ABOUT THE ANTEATER

The younger child sat bolt upright, her bedclothes wrapped
around her.

"If you're going down to look at them," she whispered accus-
ingly, "I'm coming, too! And Alice'll catch you."

Stephen Vincent Benet

"She won't catch me." Her elder .sister's voice was scornful.
"She's out in the pantry, helping. With the man from Gray's."

"All the same, I'm coming. I want to see if it's ice cream in
little molds or just the smashed kind with strawberries. And, if
Alice won't catch you, she won't catch me."

"It'll be molds," said the other, from the depths of experience,
"Mother always has molds for the Whitehouses. And Mr. White-
house sort of clicks in his throat and talks about sweets to the
sweet. You'd think he'd know that's dopey but he doesn't. And,
anyhow, it isn't your turn."

"It never is my turn," mourned her junior, tugging at the bed-
clothes.

"All right," said the elder. "If you ivant to go! And make a
noise. And then they hear us and somebody comes up—"

"Sometimes they bring you things, when they come up," said
the younger dreamily. "The man with the pink face did. And he
said I was a little angel."

"Was he dopey!" said her elder, blightingly, "and anyhow,
you were sick afterwards and you know what Mother said
about it."

The younger child sighed, a long sigh of defeat and resigna-
tion.

"All right," she said. "But next time it is my turn. And you
tell me if it's in molds." Her elder nodded as she stole out of the
door.

At the first turn of the stairs, a small landing offered an ex-
cellent observation post, provided one could get there unper-
ceived. Jennifer Sharp reached it soundlessly and, curling herself
up into the smallest possible space, stared eagerly down and
across into the dining room.

She couldn't see the whole table. But she saw at once that Mrs.
Whitehouse had a thing like a silver beetle in her hair, that
Colonel Crandall looked more like a police dog than ever, and
that there were little silver baskets of pink and white mints. That
meant that it was really a grand dinner. She made a special note
of the ice cream for Joan.

Talk and laughter drifted up to her— strange phrases and in-
comprehensible jests from another world, to be remembered,
puzzled over, and analyzed for meaning or the lack of it, when
she and Joan were alone. She hugged her knees, she was having

274

1 toe story About tbe /inteater

a good time. Pretty soon, Father would light the little blue flame
under the mysterious glass machine that made the coffee. She
liked to see him do that.

She looked at him now, appraisingly. Colonel Crandall had
fought Germans in trenches and Mr. Whitehouse had a bank to
keep his money in. But Father, on the whole, was nicer than
either of them. She remembered, as if looking back across a vast
plain, when Father and Mother had merely been Father and
Mother— huge, natural phenomena, beloved but inexplicable as
the weather— unique of their kind. Now she was older— she knew
that other people's fathers and mothers were different. Even Joan
knew that, though Joan was still a great deal of a baby. Jennifer
felt very old and rather benevolent as she considered herself and
her parents and the babyishness of Joan.

Mr. Whitehouse was talking, but Father wanted to talk, too
—she knew that from the quick little gesture he made with his
left hand. Now they all laughed and Father leaned forward.

"That reminds me," he was saying, "of one of our favorite
stories—" How young and amused his face looked, suddenly!

His eldest daughter settled back in the shadow, a bored but
tolerant smile on her lips. She knew what was coming.

When Terry Farrell and Roger Sharp fell in love, the war to
end war was just over, bobbed hair was still an issue, the movies
did not talk and women's clothes couldn't be crazier. It was also
generally admitted that the younger generation was wild but
probably sound at heart and that, as soon as we got a businessman
in the White House, things were going to be all right.

As for Terry and Roger, they were both wild and sophisti-
cated. They would have told you so. Terry had been kissed by
several men at several dances and Roger could remember the
curious, grimy incident of the girl at Fort Worth. So that showed
you. They were entirely emancipated and free. But they fell in
love very simply and unexpectedly— and their marriage was going
to be like no other marriage, because they knew all the right
answers to all the questions, and had no intention of submitting to
the commonplaces of life. At first, in fact, they were going to
form a free union— they had read of that, in popular books of
the period. But, somehow or other, as soon as Roger started to
call, both families began to get interested. They had no idea of

275

Stephen Vincent Benet

paying the slightest attention to their families. But, when your
family happens to comment favorably on the man or girl that you
are in love with, that is a hard thing to fight. Before they knew it,
they were formally engaged, and liking it on the whole, though
both of them agreed that a formal engagement was an outworn
and ridiculous social custom.

They quarreled often enough, for they were young, and a
trifle ferocious in the vehemence with which they expressed the
views they knew to be right. These views had to do, in general,
with freedom and personality, and were often supported by quo-
tations from The Golden Bough. Neither of them had read The
Golden Bough all the way through, but both agreed that it was
a great book. But the quarrels were about generalities and had
no sting. And always, before and after, was the sense of discov-
ering in each other previously unsuspected but delightful po-
tentialities and likenesses and beliefs.

As a matter of fact, they were quite a well-suited couple—
"made for each other," as the saying used to go; though they
would have hooted at the idea. They had read the minor works
of Havelock Ellis and knew the name of Freud. They didn't
believe in people being "made for each other"— they were too
advanced.

It was ten days before the date set for their marriage that
their first real quarrel occurred. And then, unfortunately, it
didn't stop at generalities.

They had got away for the day from the presents and their
families, to take a long walk in the country, with a picnic lunch.
Both, in spite of themselves, were a little solemn, a little nervous.
The atmosphere of Approaching Wedding weighed on them
both—when their hands touched, the current ran, but, when they
looked at each other, they felt strange. Terry had been shopping
the day before— she was tired, she began to wish that Roger
would not walk so fast. Roger was wondering if the sixth usher
—the one who had been in the marines— would really turn up.
His mind also held dark suspicions as to the probable behavior
of the best man, when it came to such outworn customs as rice
and shoes. They were sure that they were in love, sure now, that
they wanted to be married. But their conversation was curiously
polite.

The lunch did something for them, so did the peace of being

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The Story About the Ante at er

alone. But they had forgotten the salt and Terry had rubbed her
heel. When Roger got out his pipe, there was only tobacco left
for half a smoke. Still, the wind was cool and the earth pleasant
and, as they sat with their backs against a gray boulder in the
middle of a green field, they began to think more naturally. The
current between their linked hands ran stronger— in a moment or
two, they would be the selves they had always known.

It was, perhaps, unfortunate that Roger should have selected
that particular moment in which to tell the anteater story.

He knocked out his pipe and smiled, suddenly, at something in
his mind. Terry felt a knock at her heart, a sudden sweetness on
her tongue— how young and amused he always looked when he
smiled! She smiled back at him, her whole face changing.

"What is it, darling?" she said.

He laughed. uOh nothing," he said. "I just happened to remem-
ber. Did you ever hear the story about the anteater?"

She shook her head.

"Well," he began. "Oh, you must have heard it— sure you
haven't? Well, anyway, there was a little town down South . . .

"And the coon said, 'Why, lady, that ain't no anteater— that's
Edward!'" he finished, triumphantly, a few moments later. He
couldn't help laughing when he had finished— the silly tale always
amused him, old as it was. Then he looked at Terry and saw that
she was not laughing.

"Why, what's the matter?" he said, mechanically. "Are you
cold, dear, or—"

Her hand, which had been slowly stiffening in his clasp, now
\vithdrew itself entirely from his.

"No," she said, staring ahead of her, "I'm all right. Thanks."

He looked at her. There was somebody there he had never
seen before.

"Well," he said, confusedly, "well." Then his mouth set, his
jaw stuck out, he also regarded the landscape.

Terry stole a glance at him. It was terrible and appalling to
see him sitting there, looking bleak and estranged. She wanted
to speak, to throw herself at him, to say: "Oh, it's all my fault-
it's all my fault!" and know the luxury of saying it. Then she
remembered the anteater and her heart hardened.

It was not even, she told herself sternly, as if it were a dirty
story. It wasn't— and, if it had been, weren't they always going

Stephen Vincent Eenet

to be frank and emancipated with each other about things like
that? But it was just the kind of story she'd always hated— cruel
and— yes—vulgar. Not even healthily vulgar— vulgar with no re-
deeming adjective. He ought to have known she hated that kind
of story. He ought to have known!

If love meant anything, according to the books, it meant
understanding the other person, didn't it? And, if you didn't
understand them, in such a little thing, why, what was life going
to be afterwards? Love was like a new silver dollar— bright, un-
tarnished and whole. There could be no possible compromises
with love.

All these confused but vehement thoughts flashed through her
mind. She also knew that she was tired and wind-blown and
jumpy and that the rub on her heel was a little red spot of pain.
And then Roger was speaking.

"I'm sorry you found my story so unamusing," he said in
stiff tones of injury and accusation. "If I'd known about the way
you felt, I'd have tried to tell a funnier one— even if we did say—"

He stopped, his frozen face turned toward her. She could feel
the muscles of her own face tighten and freeze in answer.

"I wasn't in the least shocked, I assure you," she said in the
same, stilted voice. "I just didn't think it was very funny. That's
all."

UI get you. Well, pardon my glove," he said, and turned to the
landscape.

A little pulse of anger began to beat in her wrist. Something
was being hurt, something was being broken. If he'd only been
Roger and kissed her instead of saying— well, it was his fault, now.

"No, I didn't think it was funny at all," she said, in a voice
whose sharpness surprised her, "if you want to know. Just sort
of cruel and common and— well, the poor Negro—"

"That's right!" he said, in a voice of bitter irritation, "pity the
coon! Pity everybody but the person who's trying to amuse you!
I think it's a damn funny story— always have— and— "

They were both on their feet and stabbing at each other, now.

"And it's vulgar," she was saying, hotly, "plain vulgar— not
even dirty enough to be funny. Anteater indeed! Why, Roger
Sharp, it's-"

"Where's that sense of humor you were always talking about?"

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The Story About the Anteater

he was shouting. "My God, what's happened to you, Terry? I
always thought you were— and here you—"

"Well, we both of us certainly seem to have been mistaken
about each other," she could hear her strange voice, saying. Then,
even more dreadfully, came his unfamiliar accents, "Well, if
that's the way you feel about it, we certainly have."

They looked at each other, aghast. "Here!" she was saying,
"here! Oh, Lord, why won't it come off my finger?"

"You keep that on— do you hear, you damn little fool?" he
roared at her, so unexpectedly that she started, tripped, caught
her shoe in a cleft of rock, fell awkwardly, and, in spite of all her
resolves, burst undignifiedly and conventionally into a passion
of tears.

Then there was the reconciliation. It took place, no doubt, on
entirely conventional lines, and was studded with "No, it was my
fault! Say it was!" but, to them it was an event unique in history.

Terry thought it over remorsefully, that evening, waiting for
Roger. Roger was right. She had been a little fool. She knew the
inexplicable solace of feeling that she had been a little fool.

And yet, they had said those things to each other, and meant
them. He had hurt her, she had actually meant to hurt him. She
stared at these facts, solemnly. Love, the bright silver dollar. Not
like the commonplace coins in other people's pockets. But some-
thing special, different— already a little, ever-so-faintly tarnished,
as a pane is tarnished by breath?

She had been a little fool. But she couldn't quite forget the
anteater.

Then she was in Roger's arms— and knew, with utter confi-
dence, that she and Roger were different. They were always
going to be different. Their marriage wouldn't ever be like any
other marriage in the world.

The Sharps had been married for exactly six years and five
hours and Terry, looking across the table at the clever, intelli-
gent face of her affectionate and satisfactory husband, suddenly
found herself most desolately alone.

It had been a mistake in the first place— going to the Lattimores
for dinner on their own anniversary. Mr. Lattimore was the
head of Roger's company— Mrs. Lattimore's invitation had almost

279

Stephen Vincent Benet

the force of a royal command. They had talked it over, Roger
and she, and decided, sensibly, that they couldn't get out of it.
But, all the same, it had been a mistake.

They were rational, modern human beings, she assured herself
ferociously. They weren't like the horrible married couples in
the cartoons— the little woman asking her baffled mate if he re-
membered what date it was, and the rest of it. They thought
better of life and love than to tie either of them to an artificial
scheme of days. They were different. Nevertheless, there had
beert a time when they had said to each other, with foolish smiles,
"We've been married a week— or a month— or a year! Just think
of it!" This time now seemed to her, as she looked back on it
coldly, a geologic age away.

She considered Roger with odd dispassionateness. Yes, there he
was— an intelligent, rising young man in his first thirties. Not par-
ticularly handsome but indubitably attractive— charming, when
he chose— a loyal friend, a good father, a husband one could take
pride in. And it seemed to her that if he made that nervous little
gesture with his left hand again— or told the anteater story— she
would scream.

It was funny that the knowledge that you had lost everything
that you had most counted upon should come to you at a formal
dinner party, while you talked over the war days with a dark-
haired officer whose voice had the honey of the South in it. Then
she remembered that she and Roger had first discovered their love
for each other, not upon a moon-swept lawn, but in the fly-
specked waiting room of a minor railroad station— and the present
event began to seem less funny. Life was like that. It gave, unex-
pectedly, abruptly, with no regard for stage setting or the prop-
erties of romance. And, as unexpectedly and abruptly, it took
away.

While her mouth went on talking, a part of her mind searched
numbly and painfully for the reasons which had brought this
calamity about. They had loved each other in the beginning-
even now, she was sure of that. They had tried to be wise, they
had not broken faith, they had been frank and gay. No deep divi-
sion of nature sundered them— no innate fault in either, spreading
under pressure, to break the walls of their house apart. She looked
for a guilty party but she could find none. There was only a
progression of days; a succession of tiny events that followed in

280

The Story About the Ant eater

each other's footsteps without haste or rest. That was all, but
that seemed to have been enough. And Roger was looking over
at her—with that same odd, exploring glance she had used a
moment ago.

What remained? A house with a little boy asleep in it, a custom
of life, certain habits, certain memories, certain hardships lived
through together. Enough for most people, perhaps? They had
wanted more than that.

Something said to her, "Well and if— after all— the real thing
hasn't even come?" She turned to her dinner partner, for the
first time really seeing him. When you did see him, he was quite
a charming person. His voice was delightful. There was nothing
in him in the least like Roger Sharp.

She laughed and saw, at the laugh, something wake in his eyes.
He, too, had not been really conscious of her, before. But he
was, now. She was not thirty, yet— she had kept her looks. She
felt old powers, old states of mind flow back to her; things she
had thought forgotten, the glamor of first youth. Somewhere, on
the curve of a dark lake, a boat was drifting— a man was talking to
her— she could not see his face but she knew it was not Roger's—

She was roused from her waking dream by Mrs. Lattimore's
voice.

"Why, Fd never have dreamt!" Mrs. Lattimore was saying, "I
had no idea!" She called down the table, "George! Do you know
it's these people's anniversary— so sweet of them to come— and I
positively had to worm it out of Mr. Sharp!"

Terry went hot and cold all over. She was sensible, she was
brokenhearted, love was a myth, but she had particularly de-
pended on Roger not to tell anybody that this was their anni-
versary. And Roger had told.

She lived through the congratulations and the customary jokes
about "Well, this is your seventh year beginning— and you know
what they say about the seventh year!" She even lived through
Mrs. Lattimore's pensive "Six years! Why, my dear, I never
would have believed it! You're children— positive children!"

She could have bitten Mrs. Lattimore. "Children!" she thought,
indignantly, "When I— when we— when everything's in ruins!"
She "tried to freeze Roger, at long distance, but he was not look-
ing her way. And then she caught her breath, for a worse fate
was in store for her.

281

Stephen Vincent Eenet

Someone, most unhappily, had brought up the subject of pet
animals. She saw a light break slowly on Roger's face— she saw
him lean forward. She prayed for the roof to fall, for time to
stop, for Mrs. Lattimore to explode like a Roman candle into
green and purple stars. But, even as she prayed, she knew that it
was no use. Roger was going to tell the anteater story.

The story no longer seemed shocking to her, or even cruel.
But it epitomized all the years of her life with Roger. In the
course of those years, she calculated desperately, she had heard
that story at least a hundred times.

Somehow— she never knew how— she managed to survive the
hundred-and-first recital, from the hideously familiar, "Well,
there was a little town down South . . ." to the jubilant "That's
Edward!" at the end. She even summoned up a fixed smile to
meet the tempest of laughter that followed. And then, merci-
fully, Mrs. Lattimore was giving the signal to rise.

The men hung behind— the anteater story had been capped by
another. Terry found herself, unexpectedly, tete-a-tete with Mrs.
Lattimore.

"My dear," the great lady was saying, "I'd rather have asked
you another night, of course, if I'd known. But I am very glad
you could come tonight. George particularly wished Mr. Golden
to meet your brilliant husband. They are going into that Western
project together, you know, and Tom Golden leaves tomorrow.
So we both appreciate your kindness in coming."

Terry found a sudden queer pulse of warmth through the cold
fog that seemed to envelop her. "Oh," she stammered, "but
Roger and I have been married for years— and we were delighted
to come-" She looked at the older woman. "Tell me, though,"
she said, with an irrepressible burst of confidence, "doesn't it ever
seem to you as if you couldn't bear to hear a certain story again
—not if you died?"

A gleam of mirth appeared in Mrs. Lattimore's eyes.

"My dear," she said, "has George ever told you about his trip
to Peru?"

"No."

"Well, don't let him." She reflected. "Or, no-do let him," she
said. "Poor George— he does get such fun out of it. And you
would be a new audience. But it happened fifteen years ago, my
dear, and I think I could repeat every word after him verbatim,

282

The Story About the Anteater

once he's started. Even so— I often feel as if he'd never stop."

"And then what do you do?" said Terry, breathlessly— far too
interested now to remember tact.

The older woman smiled. "I think of the story I am going to
tell about the guide in the Uffizi gallery," she said. "George must
have heard that story ten thousand times. But he's still alive."

She put her hand on the younger woman's arm.

"We're all of us alike, my dear," she said. "When I'm an old
lady in a wheel chair, George will still be telling me about Peru.
But then, if he didn't, I wouldn't know he was George."

She turned away, leaving Terry to ponder over the words. Her
anger was not appeased— her life still lay about her in ruins. But,
when the dark young officer came into the room, she noticed that
his face seemed rather commonplace and his voice was merely
a pleasant voice.

Mr. Colden's car dropped the Sharps at their house. The two
men stayed at the gate ror a moment, talking— Terry ran in to
see after the boy. He was sleeping peacefully with his fists tight
shut; he looked like Roger in his sleep. Suddenly, all around her
were the familiar sights and sounds of home. She felt tired and
as if she had come back from a long journey.

She went downstairs. Roger was just coming in. He looked
tired, too, she noticed, but exultant as well.

"Golden had to run," he said at once. "Left good-by for you—
hoped you wouldn't mind— said awfully nice things. He's really
a great old boy, Terry. And, as for this new Western business—"

He noticed the grave look on her face and his own grew grave.

"I am sorry, darling," he said. "Did you mind it a lot? Well,
I did— but it couldn't be helped. You bet your life that next
time-"

"Oh, next time—" she said, and kissed him. "Of course I didn't
mind. We're different, aren't we?"

That intelligent matron, Mrs. Roger Sharp, now seated at the
foot of her own dinner table, from time to time made the appro-
priate interjections— the "Really? "s and "Yes indeed"s and "That's
what I always tell Roger"s— which comprised the whole duty of
a hostess in Colonel Crandall's case. Colonel Crandall was sin-
gularly restful— give him these few crumbs and he could be de-
pended upon to talk indefinitely and yet without creating a con-

Stephen Vincent Benet

versational desert around him. Mrs. Sharp was very grateful to
him at the moment. She wanted to retire to a secret place in her
mind and observe her own dinner party, for an instant, as a spec-
tator—and Colonel Crandall was giving her the chance.

It was going very well indeed. She had hoped for it from the
first, but now she was sure of it and she gave a tiny, inaudible
sigh of relief. Roger was at his best— the young Durwards had
recovered from their initial shyness— Mr. Whitehouse had not yet
started talking politics— the souffle had been a success. She re-
laxed a little and let her mind drift off upon other things.

Tomorrow, Roger must remember about, the light gray suit,
she must make a dental appointment for Jennifer, Mrs. Quaritch
must be dealt with tactfully in the matter of the committee. It
was too early to decide about camp for the girls but Roger Junior
must know they were proud of his marks, and if Mother intended
to give up her trip just because of poor old Miss Tompkins—
well, something would have to be done. There were also the
questions of the new oil furnace, the School board and the Brcw-
ster wedding. But none of these really bothered her— her life was
always busy— and, at the moment, she felt an unwonted desire to
look back into Time.

Over twenty years since the Armistice. Twenty years. And
Roger Junior was seventeen— and she and Roger had been married
since nineteen-twenty. Pretty soon they would be celebrating
their twentieth anniversary. It seemed incredible but it was true.

She looked back through those years, seeing an ever-younger
creature with her own face, a creature that laughed or wept for
forgotten reasons, ran wildly here, sat solemn as a young judge
there. She felt a pang of sympathy for that young heedlessness,
a pang of humor as well. She was not old but she had been so
very young.

Roger and she— the beginning— the first years— Roger Junior's
birth. The house on Edgehill Road, the one with the plate rail
in the dining room, and crying when they left because they'd
never be so happy again, but they had, and it was an inconve-
nient house. Being jealous of Milly Baldwin— and how foolish! —
and the awful country-club dance where Roger got drunk; and it
wasn't awful any more. The queer, piled years of the boom—
the crash— the bad time— Roger coming home after Tom Colden's
suicide and the look on his face. Jennifer. Joan. Houses. People.

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The Story About the Anteater

Events. And always the headlines in the papers, the voices on the
radio, dinning, dinning "No security— trouble— disaster— no se-
curity." And yet, out of insecurity, they had loved and made
children. Out of insecurity, for the space of breath, for an hour,
they had built, and now and then found peace.

No, there's no guarantee, she thought. There's no guarantee.
When you're young, you think there is, but there isn't. And
vet I'd do it over. Pretty soon we'll have been married twenty
y-ears.

"Yes, that's what I always tell Roger," she said, automatically.
Colonel Crandall smiled and proceeded. He was still quite hand-
some, she thought, in his dark way, but he was getting very bald.
Roger's hair had a few gray threads in it but it was still thick
and unruly. She liked men to keep their hair. She remembered, a
long while ago, thinking something or other about Colonel Cran-
dall's voice, but she could not remember what she had thought.

She noticed a small white speck on the curve of the stairway
but said nothing. The wrapper was warm and, if Jennifer wasn't
noticed, she would creep back to bed soon enough. It was dif-
ferent with Joan.

Suddenly, she was alert. Mrs. Durward, at Roger's end of the
table, had mentioned the Zoo. She knew what that meant— Zoo—
the new buildings— the new Housing Commissioner— and Mr.
Whitehouse let loose on his favorite political grievance all
through the end of dinner. She caught Roger's eye for a miracu-
lous instant. Mr. Whitehouse was already clearing his throat.
But Roger had the signal. Roger would save them. She saw his
[eft hand tapping in its little gesture— felt him suddenly draw
the party together. How young and amused his face looked,
under the candlelight!

"That reminds me of one of our favorite stories," he was say-
ing. She sank back in her chair. A deep content pervaded her.
He was going to tell the anteater story— and, even if some of the
people had heard it, they would have to laugh, he always told
it so well. She smiled in anticipation of the triumphant "That's
Edward!" And, after that, if Mr. Whitehouse still threatened, she
iierself would tell the story about Joan and the watering pot.

Jennifer crept back into the darkened room.
"Well?" said an eager whisper from the other bed.

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Stephen Vincent Eenet

Jennifer drew a long breath. The memory of the lighted dinner
table rose before her, varicolored, glittering, portentous— a stately
omen— a thing of splendor and mystery, to be pondered upon
for days. How could she ever make Joan see it as she had seen it?
And Joan was such a baby, anyway.

"Oh— nobody saw me," she said, in a bored voice. "But it was
in molds, thats all— oh yes— and Father told the antcater story
again."

SCHOONER FAIRCHILD'S CLASS

When he said good night to his son and Tom Drury and the
rest of them, Lane Parrington walked down the steps of the Leaf
Club and stood, for a moment, breathing in the night air. He had
made the speech they'd asked him to make, and taken pains
with it, too— but now he was wondering whether it wasn't the
same old graduate's speech after all. He hadn't meant it to be so,
but you ran into a lingo, once you started putting thoughts on
paper— you began to view with alarm and talk about imperiled
bulwarks and the American way of life.

And yet he'd been genuinely pleased when the invitation came
—and they'd asked him three months ahead. That meant some-
thing, even to the Lane Parrington of United Investments— it was
curious how old bonds held. He had been decorated by two
foreign governments and had declined a ministry— there was the
place in Virginia, the place on Long Island, the farm in Vermont
and the big apartment on the river. There were the statements
issued when sailing for Europe and the photographs and articles
in news-weeklies and magazines. And yet he had been pleased
when they asked him to speak at the annual dinner of an under-
graduate club in his own college. Of course, the Leaf was a little
different, as all Leaf members knew. When he had been a new
member, as his son was now, thfe speech had been made by a
Secretary of State.

Well, he'd done well enough, he supposed— at least Ted had
come up, afterward, a little shyly, and said, "Well, Dad, you're
quite an orator." But, once or twice, in the course of the speech,
he had caught Ted fiddling with his coffee spoon. They were

286

Schooner Fairchild's Class

almost always too long— those speeches by graduates—he had tried
to remember that. But he couldn't help running a little overtime
—not after he'd got up and seen them waiting there. They were
only boys, of course, but boys who would soon be men with
men's responsibilities— he had even made a point of that.

One of the things about the Leaf— you got a chance of hear-
ing what— well, what really important men thought of the state
of the world and the state of the nation. They could get a lot
from professors but hardly that. So, when a sensible fellow got
up to explain what sensible men really thought about this busi-
ness at Washington— why, damn it, nobody was going to ring a
gong on him! And they'd clapped him well, at the end, and Ted's
face had looked relieved. They always clapped well, at the end.

Afterward, he had rather hoped to meet Ted's friends and get
in a little closer touch with them than he did at the place in Vir-
ginia or the place on Long Island or the apartment in New York.
He saw them there, of course— they got in cars and out of cars,
they dressed and went to dances, they played on the tennis courts
and swam in the pool. They were a good crowd— a typical Leaf
crowd, well-exercised and well-mannered. They were polite to
Cora and polite to him. He offered them cigars now and then;
during the last two years he offered them whisky and soda. They
listened to what he had to say and, if he told a good story, they
usually laughed at it. They played tennis with him, occasionally,
and said, "Good shot, sir! "—afterward, they played harder tennis.
One of them was Ted, his son, well-mannered, well-exercised, a
member of the Leaf. He could talk to Ted about college athletics,
the college curriculum, his allowance, the weather, the virtues of
capitalism and whether to get a new beach wagon this summer.
Now, to these subjects was added the Leaf and the virtues of
the Leaf. He could talk to Ted about any number of things.

Nevertheless, sometimes when the annual dinner was over,
there would be a little group at the Leaf around this graduate or
that. He remembered one such group his senior year, around a
sharp-tongued old man with hooded eyes. The ex-senator was old
and broken, but they'd stayed up till two while his caustic voice
made hay of accepted catchwords. Well, he had met Ted's
friends and remembered most of their names. They had con-
gratulated him on his speech and he had drunk a highball with

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Stephen Vincent Benet

them. It had all been in accord with the best traditions of the
Leaf but it hadn't lasted very long.

For a moment, indeed, he had almost gotten into an argument
with one of them— the pink-faced, incredibly youthful one with
the glasses who was head of the Student Union— they hadn't had
student unions in his time. He had been answering a couple of
questions quite informally, using slang, and the pink-faced youth
had broken in with, "But, look here, sir— I mean, that was a good
speech you made from the conservative point of view and all
that— but when you talk about labor's being made responsible,
just what do you mean and how far do you go? Do you mean
you want to scrap the Wagner Act or amend it or what?"

But then the rest of them had said, "Oh, don't mind Stu— he's
our communist. Skip it, Stu— how's dialectic materialism today?1'
and it had passed off in kidding. Lane Parrington felt a little sorry
about that—he would have enjoyed a good argument with an
intelligent youngster— he was certainly broad-ririnded enough for
that. But, instead, he'd declined another highball and said, well,
he supposed he ought to be getting back to the inn. It had all
been very well-mannered and in accord with the best traditions
of the Leaf. He wondered how the old ex-senator had got them
to talk.

Ted had offered to walk along with him, of course, and,
equally, of course, he had declined. Now he stood for a moment
on the sidewalk, wondering whether he ought to look in at class
headquarters before going back to the inn. He ought to, he sup-
posed—after all, it was his thirtieth reunion. It would be full of
cigar smoke and voices and there would be a drunk from another
class— there was always, somehow or other, a drunk from another
class who insisted on leading cheers. And Schooner Fairchild, the
class funny man, would be telling stories— the one about the
Kickapoo chief, the one about President Dodge and the tele-
phone. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be. He
didn't dislike Schooner Fairchild any more— you couldn't dislike
a man who had wasted his life. But Schooner, somehow, had
never seemed conscious of that.

Yes, he'd go to class headquarters— he'd go, if for no other
reason than to prove that he did not dislike Schooner Fairchild.
He started walking down Club Row. There were twelve of the
clubhouses now— there had been only eight in his time. They all

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looked very much alike, even the new ones—it took an initiated
eye to detect the slight enormous differences— to know that
Wampum, in spite of its pretentious lanterns, was second-rate
and would always be second-rate, while Abbey, small and dingy,
ranked with Momus and the Leaf. Parrington stood still, re-
living the moment of more than thirty years ago when he'd
gotten the bid from Wampum and thought he would have to
accept it. It hadn't been necessary— the Leaf messenger had
knocked on his door at just three minutes to nine. But whenever
he passed the Wampum house he remembered. For almost an
hour, it had seemed as if the destined career of Lane Parring-
ton wasn't going to turn out right after all.

The small agonies of youth— they were unimportant, of course,
but they left a mark. And he'd had to succeed— he'd had to have
the Leaf, just as later on, he'd had to have money— he wasn't a
Schooner Fairchild, to take things as they came. You were geared
like that or you weren't— if you weren't, you might as well stay
in Emmetsburg and end up as a harried high school principal
with sick headaches and a fine Spencerian handwriting, as his
father had. But he had wanted to get out of Emmetsburg the
moment he had realized there were other places to go.

He remembered a look through a microscope and a lashing,
tailed thing that swam. There were only two classes of people,
the wigglcrs and the ones who stood still— he should have made
his speech on that— it would have been a better speech. And the
ones who stood still didn't like the wigglers— that, too, he knew,
from experience. If they saw a wiggler coining, they closed ranks
and opposed their large, well-mannered inertia to the brusque, ill-
mannered life. Later on, of course, they gave in gracefully, but
without real liking. He had made the Leaf on his record— and a
very good record it had had to be. He had even spent three pain-
ful seasons with the track squad, just to demonstrate that desir-
able all-aroundness that was one of the talking points. And even
so, they had smelled it— they had known, instinctively, that he
wasn't quite their kind. Tom Drury, for instance, had always
been pleasant enough— but Tom Drury had always made him feel
that he was talking a little too much and a little too loud. Tom
Drury, who, even then, had looked like a magnificent sheep. But
he had also been class president, and the heir to Drury and Son.
And yet, they all liked Schooner Fairchild— they liked him still.

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Stephen Vincent Benet

And here was the end of Club Row, and the Momus House.
He stopped and took out a cigar. It was silly to fight old battles,
especially when they were won. If they asked the Drurys to
dinner now, the Drurys came—he'd been offered and declined a
partnership in Drury and Son. But he had helped Tom out with
some of their affiliates and Tom had needed help— Tom would
always be impressive, of course, but it took more than impres-
siveness to handle certain things. And now Ted was coming along
—and Ted was sound as a bell. So sound he might marry one of
the Drury daughters, if he wanted— though that was Ted's busi-
ness. He wondered if he wanted Ted to marry young. He had
done so himself— on the whole, it had been a mistake.

Funny, how things mixed in your mind. As always, when he
remembered Dorothy, there was the sharp, sweet smell of her
perfume; then the stubborn, competent look of her hands on the
wheel of a car. They had been too much alike to have married
—lucky they'd found it out in time. She had let him keep the
child— of course he would have fought for it anyway— but it was
considered very modern in those days. Then the war had washed
over and obliterated a great deal— afterward, he had married Cora.
And that had worked out as it should— Ted was fond of her and
she treated him with just the right shade of companionableness.
Most things worked out in the end. He wondered if Dorothy
had gotten what she wanted at last— he supposed she had, with
her Texan. But she'd died in a hospital at Galveston, ten years
ago, trying to have the Texan's child, so he couldn't ask her now.
They had warned her about having more children— but, as soon
as you warned Dorothy about anything, that was what she
wanted to do. He could have told them. But the Texan was one
of those handsome, chivalrous men.

Strange, that out of their two warring ambitions should have
come the sound, reliable, healthy Ted. But, no, it wasn't strange
—he had planned it as carefully as one could, and Cora had helped
a great deal. Cora never got out of her depth and she had a fine
social sense. And the very best nurses and schools from the very
first— and there you were! You did it as you ran a business— picked
the right people and gave them authority. He had hardly ever
had to interfere himself.

There would be a great deal of money— but that could be taken
care of— there were ways. There were trust funds and founda-

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Schooner Fairchild's Class

tions and clever secretaries. And Ted need never realize it. There
was no reason he should— no reason in the least. Ted could think
he was doing it all.

He pulled hard on his cigar and started to walk away. For the
door of the Momus Club had suddenly swung open, emitting
a gush of light and a small, chubby, gray-haired figure with a
turned-up nose and a jack-o'-lantern grin. It stood on the steps
for a moment, saying good night a dozen times and laughing.
Lane Parrington walked fast— but it was no use. He heard patter-
ing footsteps behind him— a voice cried, "Ought-Eight!" with
conviction, then, "Lane Parrington, b'gosh!" He stopped and
turned.

"Oh, hello, Schooner," he said, unenthusiastically. "Your din-
ner over, too?"

"Oh, the boys'll keep it up till three," said Schooner Fairchild,
mopping his pink brow. "But, after an hour and a half, I told
them it was time they got some other poor devil at the piano.
I'm not as young as I was." He panted, comically, and linked
arms with Lane Parrington. "Class headquarters?" he said. "I
shouldn't go— Minnie will scalp me. But I will."

"Well," said Lane Parrington uncomfortably— he hated having
his arm held, "I suppose we ought to look in."

"Duty, Mr. Easy, always duty," said Schooner Fairchild and
chuckled. "Hey, don't walk so fast— an old man can't keep up
with you." He stopped and mopped his brow again. "By the
way," he said, "that's a fine boy of yours, Lane."

"Oh," said Lane Parrington awkwardly. "Thanks. But I didn't
know—"

"Saw something of him last summer," said Schooner Fair-
child cheerfully. "Sylvia brought him around to the house. He
could have a rather nice baritone, if he wanted."

"Baritone?" said Lane Parrington. "Sylvia?"

"Eldest daughter and pride of the Fairchild chateau," said
Schooner Fairchild, slurring his words by a tiny fraction. "She
collects 'em— not always— always with Father's approval. But
your boy's a nice boy. Serious, of course." He chuckled again,
it seemed to Lane Parrington maddeningly. "Oh, the sailor said
to the admiral, and the admiral said he—" he chanted. "Remem-
ber that one, Lane?"

"No," said Lane Parrington.

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Stephen Vincent Bentt

"That's right," said Schooner Fairchild, amiably. "Stupid of
me. I thought for a minute, you'd been in the quartet. But that
was dear old Pozzy Banks. Poor Pozzy— he never could sing 'The
Last Rose of Summer' properly till he was as drunk as an owl.
A man of great talents. I hoped he'd be here this time but he
couldn't make it. He wanted to come," he hummed, "but he
didn't have the fare . . ."

"That's too bad," said Lane Parrington, seriously. "And yet,
with business picking up . . ."

Schooner Fairchild looked at him queerly, for an instant. "Oh,
bless you!" he said. "Pozzy never had a nickel. But he was fun."
He tugged at Lane Parrington's arm, as they turned a corner and
saw an electric sign— 1908— above the door. "Well, here we go!"
he said.

An hour later, Lane Parrington decided that it was just as he
had expected. True, the drunk from the unidentified class had
gone home. But others, from other classes, had arrived. And
Schooner Fairchild was sitting at the piano.

He himself was wedged uncomfortably at the back of the
room between Ed Runner and a man whose name, he thought,
was either Ferguson or Whitelaw, but who, in any case, addressed
him as "Lane, old boy." This made conversation difficult, for
it was hard to call his neighbor either "Fergy" or "Whitey"
without being sure of his name. On the other hand, conversa-
tion with Ed Runner was equally difficult, for that gentleman
had embarked upon an interminable reminiscence whose point
turned upon the exact location of Bill Webley's room Sophomore
year. As Lane Parrington had never been in any of Bill Webley's
rooms, he had very little to add to the discussion. He was also
drinking beer, which never agreed with him, and the cigar
smoke stung his eyes. And around the singer and the piano
boiled and seethed a motley crew of graduates of all classes—
the Roman togas of 1913, the convict stripes of 1935, t^ie s'lorts
and explorers' helmets of 1928. For the news had somehow gone
around, through the various class headquarters, that Schooner
Fairchild was doing his stuff— and, here and there, among the
crowd, were undergraduates, who had heard from brothers and
uncles about Schooner Fairchild, but had never seen him before
in the flesh.

He had told the story of the Kickapoo chief, he had given

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Schooner Fairchild's Class

the imitation of President Dodge and the telephone. Both these
and other efforts, Lane Parrington noted wonderingly, had been
received with tumultuous cheers. Now he played a few chords
and swung around on the piano stool.

"I shall now," he said, with his cherubic face very solemn,
"emit my positively last and final number—an imitation of dear
old Pozzy Banks, attempting to sing 'The Last Rose of Summer'
while under the influence of wine. Not all of you have been
privileged to know dear old Pozzy— a man of the most varied
and diverse talents— it is our great regret that he is not with us
tonight. But for those of you who were not privileged to know
Pozzy, may I state as an introduction that dear old Pozzy is built
something on the lines of a truck, and that, when under the in-
fluence of wine, it was his custom to sing directly into his hat,
which he held out before him like a card tray. We will now
begin." He whirled round, struck a few lugubrious notes and
began to sing.

It was, as even Lane Parrington had to admit, extremely funny.
He heard himself joining in the wild, deep roar of laughter that
greeted the end of the first verse— he was annoyed at himself
but he could not help it. By some magic, by some trick of ges-
ture and voice, the chubby, bald-headed figure had suddenly be-
come a large and lugubrious young man— a young man slightly
under the influence of wine but still with the very best inten-
tions, singing sentimentally and lugubriously into his hat. It was
a trick and an act and a sleight of hand not worth learning— but
it did not fail in its effect. Lane Parrington found himself laugh-
ing till he ached— beside him, the man named either Ferguson or
Whitclaw was whooping and gasping for breath.

"And now," said Schooner Fairchild, while they were still
laughing, "let somebody play who can play!" And, magically
crooking his finger, he summoned a dark-haired undergraduate
from the crowd, pushed him down on the piano stool, and, some-
how or other, slipped through the press and vanished, while they
were still calling his name.

Lane Parrington, a little later, found himself strolling up and
down the dejected back yard of class headquarters. They had
put up a tent, some iron tables and a number of paper lanterns,
but, at this hour, the effect was not particularly gay. It must
be very late and he ought to go to bed. But he did not look at

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Stephen Vincent Eenet

his watch. He was trying to think about certain things in his life
and get them into a proportion. It should be a simple thing to
do, as simple as making money, but it was not.

Ted—Dorothy—the Leaf— Emmetsburg— Schooner Fairchild—
Tom Drury— the place in Virginia and the mean house at Em-
metsburg—United Investments and a sleight-of-hand trick at a
tiny piano. He shuffled the factors of the equation about; they
should add up to a whole. And, if they did, he would be will-
ing to admit it; he told himself that. Yes, even if the final sum
proved him wrong for years— that had always been one of the
factors of his own success, his knowing just when to cut a loss.

A shaky voice hummed behind him:

"Oh, the ship's cat said to the cabin boy,
To the cabin boy said she . . ."

He turned— it was Schooner Fairchild and, he thought at first,
Schooner Fairchild was very drunk. Then he saw the man's lips
were gray, caught him and helped him into one of the iron
chairs.

"Sorry," wheezed Schooner Fairchild. "Must have run too
fast, getting away from the gang. Damn' silly— left my medicine
at the inn."

"Here— wait— " said Lane Parrington, remembering the flask
of brandy in his pocket. He uncorked it and held it to the other
man's lips. "Can you swallow?" he said solicitously.

An elfish, undefeated smile lit Schooner Fairchild's face.
"Always could, from a child," he gasped. "Never ask a Fair-
child twice." He drank and said, incredibly, it seemed to Lane
Parrington, "Napoleon . . . isn't it? Sir, you spoil me." His color
began to come back. "Better," he said.

"Just stay there," said Lane Parrington. He dashed back into
club headquarters— deserted now, he noticed, except for the
gloomy caretaker and the man called Ferguson or Whitelaw, who
was ungracefully asleep on a leather couch. Efficiently, he found
glasses, ice, soda, plain water and ginger ale, and returned, his
hands full of these trophies, to find Schooner Fairchild sitting
up in his chair and attempting to get a cigarette from the pocket
of his coat.

His eyes twinkled as he saw Lane Parrington's collection of
glassware. "My!" he said/ "We are going to make a night of it.
Great shock to me— never thought it of you, Lane."

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Schooner Fairchild' s Class

"Hadn't I better get a doctor?" said Lane Parrington. "There's
a telephone—"

"Not a chance," said Schooner Fairchild. "It would worry
Minnie sick. She made me promise before I came up to take
care. It's just the old pump—misses a little sometimes. But I'll be
all right, now— right as a trivet, whatever a trivet is. Just give me
another shot of Napoleon."

"Of course," said Lane Parrington, "but—"

"Brandy on beer, never fear," said Schooner Fairchild. "Fair-
child's Medical Maxims, Number One. And a cigarette . . .
thanks." He breathed deeply. "And there we are," he said, with a
smile. "Just catches you in the short ribs, now and then. But,
when it's over, it's over. You ought to try a little yourself, Lane
—damn' silly performance of mine and you look tired."

"Thanks," said Lane Parrington, "I will." He made himself,
neatly, an efficient brandy and soda and raised the glass to his
lips. "Well-er— here's luck," he said, a little stiffly.

"Luck!" nodded Schooner Fairchild. They both drank. Lane
Parrington looked at the pleasant, undefeated face.

"Listen, Schooner," said Lane Parrington, suddenly and
harshly, "if you had the whole works to shoot over again—" He
stopped.

"That's the hell of a question to ask a man at three o'clock in
the morning," said Schooner equably. "Why?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Lane Parrington. "But that stuff at
the piano you did— well, how did you do it?" His voice was
oddly ingenious, for Lane Parrington.

"Genius, my boy, sheer, untrammeled genius," said Schooner
Fairchild. He chuckled and sobered. "Well, somebody has to,"
he said reasonably. "And you wouldn't expect Tom Drury to do
it, would you?— poor old Tom!"

"No," said Lane Parrington, breathing. "I wouldn't expect Tom
Drury to do it."

"Oh, Tom's all right," said Schooner Fairchild. "He was just
born with an ingrowing Drury and never had it operated on. But
he's a fine guy, all the same. Lord," he said, "it must be a curse
—to have to be a Drury, whether you like it or not. I never could
have stood it— I never could have played the game. Of course," he
added hastily, "I suppose it's different, if you do it all yourself,
the way you have. That must be a lot of run."

295

Stephen Vincent Benet

"I wouldn't exactly call it fun," said Lane Parrington earnestly.
"You see, after all, Schooner, there are quite a good many things
that enter into . . ." He paused, and laughed hopelessly. "Wds
I always a stuffed shirt?" he said. "I suppose I was."

"Oh, I wouldn't call you a stuffed shirt," said Schooner, a little
quickly. "You just had to succeed— and you've done it. Gosh, we
all knew you were going to, right from the first— there couldn't
be any mistake about that. It must be a swell feeling." He looked
at Lane Parrington and his voice trailed off. He began again.
"You see, it was different with me," he said. "I couldn't help it.
Why, just take a look at me— I've even got a comedy face. Well,
I never wanted anything very much except— oh, to have a good
time and know other people were having a good time. Oh, I
tried taking the other things seriously— 1 tried when I was a
broker, but I couldn't, it was just no go. I made money enough
—everybody was making money— but every now and then, in the
middle of a million-share day, Fd just think how damn silly it
was for everybody to be watching the board and getting all
excited over things called ATT and UGI. And that's no way for
a broker to act— you've got to believe those silly initials mean
something, if you want to be a broker.

"Well, I've tried a good many things since. And now and then
I've been lucky, and we've gotten along. And I've spent most of
Minnie's money, but she says it was worth it— and we've got the
five girls and they're wonders— and I'll probably die playing the
piano at some fool party, for you can't keep it up forever, but
I only hope it happens before somebody says, 'There goes poor
old Schooner. He used to be pretty amusing, in his time!' But,
you see, I couldn't help it," he ended diffidently. "And, you
know, I've tried. I've tried hard. But then I'd start laughing, and
it always got in the way."

Lane Parrington looked at the man who had spent his wife's
money and his own for a sleight-of-hand trick, five daughters,
and the sound of friendly laughter. He looked at him without
understanding, and yet with a curious longing.

"But, Schooner—" he said, "with all you can do— you ought
to-"

"Oh," said Schooner, a trifle wearily, "one has one's dreams.
Sure, I'd like to be Victor Boucher— he's a beautiful comedian.

296

Schooner Fairchild's Class

Or Bill Fields, for instance. Who wouldn't? But I don't kid my-
self. It's a parlor talent— it doesn't go oyer the footlights. But,
Lord, what fun I've had with it! And the funny things people
keep doing, forever and ever, amen. And the decent—the very
decent things they keep doing, too. Well, I always thought it
would be a good life, while you had it." He paused, and Lane
Parrington saw the fatigue on his face. "Well, it's been a good
party," he said. "I wish old Pozzy could have been here. But I
guess we ought to go to bed."

"I'll phone for a cab," said Lane Parrington. "Nope—you're
* j ' j >
riding.

Lane Parrington shut the door of Schooner Fairchild's room
behind him and stood, for a moment, with his hand on the knob.
He had seen Schooner safely to bed— he had even insisted on the
latter's taking his medicine, though Schooner had been a little
petulant about it. Now, however, he still wondered about calling
a doctor— if Schooner should be worse in the morning, he would
have Anstey come up by plane. It was nothing to do, though not
everybody could do it, and Anstey was much the best man. In
any case, he would insist on Schooner's seeing Anstey this week.
Then he wondered just how he was going to insist.

The old elevator just across the corridor came to a wheezing
stop. Its door opened and a dark-haired girl in evening dress
came out. Lane Parrington dropped his hand from the doorknob
and turned away. But the girl took three quick steps after him.

"I'm sorry," she said, a little breathlessly, "but I'm Sylvia Fair-
child. Is Father ill? The elevator boy said something— and I saw
you coming out of his room,"

"He's all right," said Lane Parrington. "It was just the slight-
est sort of—"

"Oh!" said the girl, "do you mind coming back for a minute?
You're Ted's father, aren't you? My room's next door, but I've
got a key for his, too— Mother told me to be sure—" She seemed
very self-possessed. Lane Parrington waited uncomfortably in the
corridor for what seemed to him a long time, while she went into
her father's room. When she carne out again, she seemed relieved.

"It's all right," she said, in a low voice. "He's asleep, and his
color's good. And he's . . ." She paused. "Oh, damn!" she said.

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Stephen Vincent Benet

"We can't talk out here. Come into my room for a minute— we
can leave the door open— after all, you are Ted's father. I'll have
to tell Mother, you see— and Father will just say it wasn't any-
thing."

She opened the door and led the way into the room. "Here,"
she said. "Just throw those stockings off the chair— I'll sit on
the bed. Well?"

"Well, I asked him if he wanted a doctor . . ." said Lane Par-
rington humbly.

When he had finished a concise, efficient report, the girl
nodded, and he saw for the first time that she was pretty, with
her dark, neat head and her clever, stubborn chin.

"Thank you," she said. "I mean, really. Father's a perfect lamb
—but he doesn't like to worry Mother, and it worries her a lot
more not to know. And sometimes it's rather difficult, getting the
truth out of Father's friends. Not you," she was pleased to add.
"You've been perfectly truthful. And the brandy was quite all
right."

"I'm glad," said Lane Parrington. "I wish your father would
see Anstey," he added, a trifle awkwardly. "I could— er— make
arrangements."

"He has," said the girl. Her mouth twitched. "Oh," she said.
"I shouldn't have gone to the dance. I couldn't help the Momus
Club, but he might have come back afterward, if I'd been here.
Only, I don't know."

"I wouldn't reproach myself," said Lane Parrington. "After
all-"

"Oh, I know," said the girl. "After all! If you don't all manage
to kill him, between you! Friends!" she sniffed. Then, suddenly,
her face broke into lines of amusement. "I sound just like Aunt
Emma," she said. "And that's pretty silly of me. Aunt Emma's
almost pure poison. Of course it isn't your fault and I really do
thank you. Very much. Do you know, I never expected you'd
be a friend of Father's."

"After all," said Lane Parrington stiffly, "we were in the same
class."

"Oh, I know," said the girl. "Father's talked about you, of
course." Her mouth twitched again, but this time, it seemed to
Lane Parrington, with a secret merriment. "And so has Ted,
naturally," she added politely.

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Schooner Fairchild's Class

"I'm glad he happened to mention me," said Lane Parrington,
and she grinned, frankly.

"I deserved that," she said, while Lane Parrington averted his
eyes from what seemed to be a remarkably flimsy garment hung
over the bottom of the bed. "But Ted has, really. He admires
you quite a lot, you know, though, of course, you're different
generations."

"Tell me—" said Lane Parrington. "No, I won't ask you."

"Oh, you know Ted," said the girl, rather impatiently. "It's
awfully hard to get him to say things— and he will spend such a
lot of time thinking he ought to be noble, poor Iamb. But he's
losing just a little of that, thank goodness—when he first came to
Widgeon Point, he was trying so hard to be exactly like that ter-
rible Drury boy. You see—" she said, suddenly and gravely, "he
could lose quite a lot of it and still have more than most people."

Lane Parrington cleared his throat. There seemed nothing for
him to say. Then he thought of something.

"His mother was— er— a remarkable person," he said. "We were
not at all happy together. But she had remarkable qualities."

"Yes," said the girl. "Ted's told me. He remembers her." They
looked at each other for a moment— he noted the stubborn chin,
the swift and admirable hands. Then a clock on the mantel struck
and the girl jumped.

"Good heavens!" she said. "It's four o'clock! Well— good night.
And I do thank you, Mr. Parrington."

"It wasn't anything," said Lane Parrington. "But remember me
to your father. But I'll see you in the morning, of course."

The following afternoon, Lane Parrington found himself wait-
ing for his car in the lobby of the inn. There had been a little
trouble with the garage and it was late. But he did not care,
particularly, though he felt glad to be going back to New York.
He had said good-by to Ted an hour before— Ted was going on
to a house party at the Chiltons'— they'd eventually meet on Long
Island, he supposed. Meanwhile, he had had a pleasant morning,
attended the commencement exercises, and had lunch with Ted
and the Fairchilds at the inn. Schooner had been a little subdued
and both Ted and the girl frankly sleepy, but he had enjoyed
the occasion nevertheless. And somehow the fact that the presi-
dent's baccalaureate address had also viewed with alarm and
talked about imperiled bulwarks and the American way of life—

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Stephen Vincent Benet

had, in fact, repeated with solemn precision a good many of the
points in his own speech—did not irk Lane Parrington as it might
nave the day before. After all, the boys were young and could
stand it. They had stood a good deal of nonsense, even in his
own time.

Now he thought once more of the equation he had tried too
earnestly to solve, in the back yard of commencement head-
quarters—and, for a moment, almost grinned. It was, of course,
insoluble— life was not as neat as that. You did what you could,
as it was given you to do— very often you did the wrong things.
And if you did the wrong things, you could hardly remedy them
by a sudden repentance— or, at least, he could not. There were
still the wigglers and the ones who stood still— and each had his
own virtues. And because he was a wiggler, he had thoughtfully
and zealously done his best to make his son into the image of one
of the magnificent sheep— the image of Tom Drury, who was
neither hungry nor gay. He could not remedy that, but he
thought he knew somebody who could remedy it, remembering
the Fairchild girl's stubborn chin. And, in that case at least, the
grandchildren ought to be worth watching.

"Your car, Mr. Parrington," said a bellboy. He moved toward
the door. It was hard to keep from being a stuffed shirt, if you
had the instinct in you, but one could try. A good deal might be
done, with trying.

As he stepped out upon the steps of the inn, he noticed a
figure, saluting— old Negro Mose, the campus character who re-
membered everybody's name.

"Hello, Mose!" said Lane Parrington. "Remember me?"

"Remember you— sho\ Mr. Parrington," said Mose. He re-
garded Lane Parrington with beady eyes. "Let's see— you was
1906."

"Nineteen hundred and eight," said Lane Parrington, but with-
out rancor.

Mose gave a professional chuckle. "Sho'I" he said. "I was
forgettin'! Let's see— you hasn't been back fo' years, Mister Par-
rington—but you was in Tom Drury's class— an' Schooner Fair-
child's class-"

"No," said Lane Parrington and gave the expected dollar, "not
Tom Drury's class. Schooner Fairchild's class."

300

EVERYBODY WAS VERY NICE

Yes, I guess I have put on weight since you last saw me—
not that you're any piker yourself, Spike. But I suppose you
medicos have to keep in shape—probably do better than we down-
town. I try to play golf in the week-ends, and I do a bit of sail-
ing. But four innings of the baseball game at reunion was enough
for me. I dropped out, after that, and let Art Corliss pitch.

You really should have been up there. After all, the Twentieth
is quite a milestone— and the class is pretty proud of its famous
man. What was it that magazine article said: "most brilliant
young psychiatrist in the country"? I may not know psychiatry
from marbles, but I showed it to Lisa, remarking that it was old
Spike Garrett, and for once she was impressed. She thinks brokers
are pretty dumb eggs. I wish you could stay for dinner— I'd like
to show you the apartment and the twins. No, they're Lisa's and
mine. Boys, if you'll believe it. Yes, the others are with Sally-
young Barbara's pretty grown up, now.

Well, I can't complain. I may not be famous like you, Spike,
but I manage to get along, in spite of the brain trusters, and
having to keep up the place on Long Island. I wish you got
East oftener— there's a pretty view from the guest house, right
across the Sound— and if you wanted to write a book or any-
thing, we'd know enough to leave you alone. Well, they started
calling me a partner two years ago, so I guess that's what I am,
Still fooling them, you know. But, seriously, we've got a pretty
fine organization. We run a conservative business, but we're no!
all stuffed shirts, in spite of what the radicals say. As a matter oi
fact, you ought to see what the boys ran about us in the last Bawl
Street Journal. Remind me to show it to you.

But it's your work I want to hear about— remember thos<
bull-sessions we used to have in Old Main? Old Spike Garrett
the Medical Marvel! Why, I've even read a couple of your books
you old horse thief, believe it or not! You got me pretty tanglec
up on all that business about the id and the ego, too. But what 1
say is, there must be something in it if a fellow like Spike Garrcti
believes it. And there is, isn't there? Oh, I know you couldn't giv(
me an answer in five minutes. But as long as there's a system-
and the medicos know what they're doing.

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Stephen Vincent Benet

I'm not asking for myself, of course—remember how you used
to call me the 99 per-cent normal man? Well, I guess I haven't
changed. It's just that I've gotten to thinking recently, and Lisa
says I go around like a bear with a sore head. Well, it isn't that.
I'm just thinking. A man has to think once in a while. And then,
going back to reunion brought it all up again.

What I mean is this— the thing seemed pretty clear when we
were in college. Of course, that was back in '15, but I can
remember the way most of us thought. You fell in love with a
girl and married her and settled down and had children and that
was that. I'm not being simple-minded about it— you knew peo-
ple get divorced, just as you knew people died, but it didn't seem
something that was likely to happen to you. Especially if you
came from a small Western city, as I did. Great Scott, I can
remember when I was just a kid and the Premisses got divorced.
They were pretty prominent people and it shook the whole town.

That's why I want to figure things out for my own satisfaction.
Because I never expected to be any Lothario— I'm not the type.
And yet Sally and I got divorced and we're both remarried, and
even so, to tell you the truth, things aren't going too well. I'm
not saying a word against Lisa. But that's the way things are. And
it isn't as if I were the only one. You can look around anywhere
and see it, and it starts you wondering.

I'm not going to bore you about myself and Sally. Good Lord,
you ushered at the wedding, and she always liked you. Remem-
ber when you used to come out to the house? Well, she hasn't
changed— she's still got that little smile— though, of course, we're
all older. Her husband's a doctor, too— that's funny, isn't it?— and
they live out in Montclair. They've got a nice place there and he's
very well thought of. We used to live in Meadowfield, re-
member?

I remember the first time I saw her after she married Mc-
Conaghey— oh, we're perfectly friendly, you know. She had on
red nail polish and her hair was different, a different bob. And
she had one of those handbags with her new initials on it. It's
funny, the first time, seeing your wife in clothes you don't know.
Though Lisa and I have been married eight years, for that matter,
and Sally and I were divorced in '28.

Of course, we have the children for part of the summer. We'll
have Barbara this summer— Bud'll be in camp. It's a little difficult

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Everybody Was Very Nice

sometimes, but we all co-operate. You have to. And there's plenty
to do on Long Island in the summer, that's one thing. But they
and Lisa get along very well— Sally's brought them up nicely that
way. For that matter, Doctor McConaghey's very nice when I
see him. He gave me a darn good prescription for a cold and I get
it filled every winter. And Jim Blake— he's Lisa's first husband-
is really pretty interesting, now we've got to seeing him again.
In fact, we're all awfully nice— just as nice and polite as we can
be. And sometimes I get to wondering if it mightn't be a good
idea if somebody started throwing fits and shooting rockets,
instead. Of course I don't really mean that.

You were out for a week end with us in Meadowfield— maybe
you don't remember it— but Bud was about six months old then
and Barbara was just running around. It wasn't a bad house, if
you remember the house. Dutch Colonial, and the faucet in the
pantry leaked. The landlord was always fixing it, but he never
quite fixed it right. And you had to cut hard to the left to back
into the garage. But Sally liked the Japanese cherry tree and it
wasn't a bad house. We were going to build on Rose Hill Road
eventually. We had the lot picked out, if we didn't have the
money, and we made plans about it. Sally never could remember
to put in the doors in the plan, and we laughed about that.

It wasn't anything extraordinary, just an evening. After sup-
per, we sat around the lawn in deck chairs and drank Sally's beer
—it was long before Repeal. We'd repainted the deck chairs our-
selves the Sunday before and we felt pretty proud of them. The
light stayed late, but there was a breeze after dark, and once Bud
started yipping and Sally went up to him. She had on a white
dress, I think— she used to wear white a lot in the summers— it
went with her blue eyes and her yellow hair. Well, it wasn't
anything extraordinary— we didn't even stay up late. But we
were all there. And if you'd told me that within three years we'd
both be married to other people, I'd have thought you were
raving.

Then you went West, remember, and we saw you off on the
train. So you didn't see what happened, and, as a matter of fact,
it's hard to remember when we nrst started meeting the Blakes.
They'd moved to Meadowfield then, but we hadn't met them.

Jim Blake was one of those pleasant, ugly-faced people with
steel glasses who get right ahead in the law and never IOOK young

303

Stephen Vincent Benet

or old. And Lisa was Lisa. She's dark, you know, and she takes
a beautiful burn. She was the first girl there to wear real beach
things or drink a special kind of tomato juice when everybody
else wa^ drinking cocktails. She was very pretty and very good
fun to be with— she's got lots of ideas. They entertained a good
deal because Lisa likes that—she had her own income, of course,
and she and Jim used to bicker a good deal in public in an amus-
ing way— it was sort of an act or seemed like it. They had one lit-
tle girl, Sylvia, that Jim was crazy about. I mean it sounds normal,
doesn't it, even to their having the kind of Airedale you had then?
Well, it all seemed normal enough to us, and they soon got to be
part of the crowd. You know, the young married crowd in every
suburb.

Of course, that was '28 and the boom was booming and
everybody was feeling pretty high. I suppose that was part of
it— the money— and the feeling you had that everything was
going faster and faster and wouldn't stop. Why, it was Sally
herself who said that we owed ourselves a whirl and mustn't get
stodgy and settled while we were still young. Well, we had
snick pretty close to the grindstone for the past few years, with
the children and everything. And it was fun to feel young and
sprightly again and buy a new car and take in the club gala
without having to worry about how you'd pay your house
account. But I don't see any harm in that.

And then, of course, we talked and kidded a lot about freedom
and what have you. Oh, you know the kind of talk— everybody
was talking it then. About not being Victorians and living your
own life. And there was the older generation and the younger
generation. I've forgotten a lot of it now, but I remember there
was one piece about love not being just a form of words mum-
bled by a minister, but something pretty special. As a matter of
fact, the minister who married us was old Doctor Snell and he
had the kind of voice you could hear in the next county. But I
used to talk about that mumbling minister myself. I mean, we
were enlightened, for a suburb, if you get my point. Yes, and
pretty proud of it, too. When they banned a book in Boston, the
lending library ordered six extra copies. And I still remember the
big discussion we had about perfect freedom in marriage when
even the straight Republicans voted the radical ticket. All except

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Everybody Was Very Nice

Chick Bewleigh, and he was a queer sort of bird, who didn't even
believe that stocks had reached a permanently high plateau.

But, meanwhile, most of us were getting the 8:15 and our
wives were going down to the chain store and asking if that was
a really nice head of lettuce. At least that's the way we seemed.
And, if the crowd started kidding me about Mary Sennett, or
Mac Church kissed Sally on the ear at a club revel, why, we
were young, we were modern, and we could handle that. I
wasn't going to take a shotgun to Mac, and Sally wasn't going
to put on the jealous act. Oh, we had it all down to a science. We
certainly did.

Good Lord, we had the Blakes to dinner, and they had us.
They'd drop over for drinks or we'd drop over there. It was
all perfectly normal and part^ of the crowd. For that matter,
Sally played with Jim Blake in the mixed handicap and they
got to the semifinals. No, I didn't play with Lisa— she doesn't like
golf. I mean that's the way it was.

And I can remember the minute it started, and it wasn't any-
thing, just a party at the Bewleighs'. They've got a big, rambling
house and people drift around. Lisa and I had wandered out to the
kitchen to get some drinks for the people on the porch. She
had on a black dress, that night, with a big sort of orange flower
on it. It wouldn't have suited everybody, but it suited her.

We were talking along like anybody and suddenly we stopped
talking and looked at each other. And I felt, for a minute, well,
just the way I felt when I was first in love with Sally. Only this
time, it wasn't Sally. It happened so suddenly that all I could
chink of was, "Watch your step!" Just as if you'd gone into a
room in the dark and hit your elbow. I guess that makes it
genuine, doesn't it?

We picked it up right away and went back to the party. All
she said was, "Did anybody ever tell you that you're really quite
a menace, Dan?" and she said that in the way we all said those
things. But, all the same, it had happened. I could hear her voice
all the way back in the car. And yet, I was as fond of Sally as
ever. I don't suppose you'll believe that, but it's true.

And next morning, I tried to kid myself that it didn't have
any importance. Because Sally wasn't jealous, and we were all
modern and advanced and knew about life. But the next time
I saw Lisa, I knew it had.

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Stephen Vincent Benet

I want to say this. If you think it was all romance and rose-
buds, you're wrong. A lot of it was merry hell. And yet, every-
body whooped us on. That's what I don't understand. They
didn't really want the Painters and the Blakes to get divorced,
and yet they were pretty interested. Now, why do people do
that? Some of them would carefully put Lisa and me next to
each other at table and some of them would just as carefully not.
But it all added up to the same thing in the end—a circus was
going on and we were part of the circus. It's interesting to
watch the people on the high wires at the circus and you hope
they don't fall. But, if they did, that would be interesting too.
Of course, there were a couple of people who tried, as they sayf
to warn us. But they were older people and just made us mad.

Everybody was so nice and considerate and understanding.
Everybody was so nice and intelligent and fine. Don't misunder-
stand me. It was wonderful, being with Lisa. It was new and
exciting. And it seemed to be wonderful for her, and she'd been
unhappy with Jim. So, anyway, that made me feel less of a heel,
though I felt enough of a heel, from time to time. And then,
when we were together, it would seem so fine.

A couple of times we really tried to break it, too— at least
twice. But we all belonged to the same crowd, and what could
you do but run away? And, somehow, that meant more than
running away— it meant giving in to the Victorians and that
mumbling preacher and all the things we'd said we didn't be-
lieve in. Or I suppose Sally might have done like old Mrs. Pierce,
back home. She horsewhipped the dressmaker on the station plat-
form and then threw herself crying into Major Pierce's arms
and he took her to Atlantic City instead. It's one of the town's
great stories and I always wondered what they talked about on
the train. Of course, they moved to DCS Moines after that— I
remember reading about their golden wedding anniversary when
I was in college. Only nobody could do that nowadays, and,
besides, Lisa wasn't a dressmaker.

So, finally, one day, I came home, and there was Sally, per-
fectly cold, and, we talked pretty nearly all night. We'd been
awfully polite to each other for quite a while before— the way
you are. And we kept polite, we kept a good grip on ourselves.
After all, we'd said to each other before we were married that
if either of us ever— and there it was. And it was Sally who

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Everybody Was Very Nice

brought that up, not me. I think we'd have felt better if we'd
fought. But we didn't fight.

Of course, she was bound to say some things about Lisa, and
I was bound to answer. But that didn't last long and we got our
grip right back again. It was funny, being strangers and talking so
politely, but we did it. I think it gave us a queer .kind of pride
to do it. I think it gave us a queer kind of pride for her to ask
me politely for a drink at the end, as if she were in somebody
else's house, and for me to mix it for her, as if she were a guest.

Everything was talked out by then and the house felt very
dry and empty, as if nobody lived in it at all. We'd never been up
quite so late in the house, except after a New Year's party or
when Buddy was sick, that time. I mixed her drink very care-
fully, the way she liked it, with plain water, and she took it and
said "Thanks." Then she sat for a while without saying anything.
It was so quiet you could hear the little drip of the leaky faucet
in the pantry, in spite of the door being closed. She heard it and
said, "It's dripping again. You better call up Mr. Vye in the morn-
ing—I forgot. And I think Barbara's getting a cold— I meant to
tell you." Then her face twisted and I thought she was going to
cry, but she didn't.

She put the glass down—she'd only drunk half her drink— and
said, quite quietly, "Oh, damn you, and damn Lisa Blake, and
damn everything in the world!" Then she ran upstairs before I
could stop her and she still wasn't crying.

I could have run upstairs after her, but I didn't. I stood looking
at the glass on the table and I couldn't think. Then, after a
while, I heard a key turn in a lock. So I picked up my hat and
went out for a walk— I hadn't been out walking that early in a
long time. Finally, I found an all-night djoer and got some coffee.
Then I came back and read a book tlFthe maid got down— it
wasn't a very interesting book. When she came down, I pre-
tended I'd gotten up early and had to go into town by the first
train, but I guess she knew.

I'm not going to talk about the details. If you've been through
them, you've been through them; and if you haven't, you don't
know. My family was fond of Sally, and Sally's had always liked
me. Well, that made it tough. And the children. They don't say
the things you expect them to. I'm not going to talk about that.

Oh, we put on a good act, we put on a great show! There

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Stephen Vincent Benet

weren't any fists flying or accusations. Everybody said how
well we did it, everybody in town. And Lisa and Sally saw each
other, and Jim Blake and I talked to each other perfectly calmly.
We said all the usual things. He talked just as if it were a case.
I admired him for it. Lisa did her best to make it emotional, but
we wouldn't let her. And I finally made her see that, court or
no court, he'd simply have to have Sylvia. He was crazy about
her, and while Lisa's a very good mother, there wasn't any ques-
tion as to which of them the kid liked best. It happens that way,
sometimes.

For that matter, I saw Sally off on the train to Reno. She
wanted it that way. Lisa was going to get a Mexican divorce—
they'd just come in, you know. And nobody could have told,
from the way we talked in the station. It's funny, you get a queer
bond, through a time like that. After I'd seen her off— and she
looked small in the train—the first person I wanted to see wasn't
Lisa, but Jim Blake. You see, other people are fine, but unless
you've been through things yourself, you don't quite understand
them. But Jim Blake was still in Meadowfield, so I went back to
the club.

I hadn't ever really lived in the club before, except for three
days one summer. They treat you very well, but, of course,
being a college club, it's more for the youngsters and the few
old boys who hang around the bar. I got awfully tired of the
summer chintz in the dining room and the Greek waiter I had
who breathed on my neck. And you can't work all the time,
though I used to stay late at the office. I guess it was then I
first thought of getting out of Spencer Wilde and making a new
connection. You think about a lot of things at a time like that.

Of course, there werjUots of people I could have seen, but I
sOTRe

didn't much want to— sOTRehow, you don't. Though I did strike
up quite a friendship with one of the old boys. He was about
fifty-five and he'd been divorced four times and was living per-
manently at the club. We used to sit up in his little room—he'd
had his own furniture moved in and the walls were covered with
pictures— drinking Tom Collinses and talking about life. He had
lots of ideas about life, and about matrimony, too, and I got
quite interested, listening to him. But then he'd go into the
dinners he used to give at Dclmonico's, and while that was inter-

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Everybody Was Very Nice

esting, too, it wasn't much help, except to take your mind off the
summer chintz.

He had sonic sort of small job, downtown, but I guess he
had an income from his family too. He must have. But when
Td ask him what he did, he'd always say, "I'm retired, my boy,
very much retired, and how about a touch more beverage to
keep out the sun?" He always called it beverage, but they knew
what he meant at the bar. He turned up at the wedding, when
Lisa and I were married, all dressed up in a cutaway, and insisted
on making us a little speech— very nice it was too. Then we had
him to dinner a couple of times, after we'd got back, and some-
how or other, I haven't seen him since. I suppose he's still at the
club— I've got out of the habit of going there, since I joined the
other ones, though I still keep my membership.

Of course, all that time, I was crazy about Lisa and writing
her letters and waiting till we could be married. Of course I was.
But, now and then, even that would get shoved into the back-
ground. Because there was so much to do and arrangements to
make and people like lawyers to see. I don't like lawyers very
much, even yet, though the people we had were very good.
But there was all the telephoning and the conferences. Somehow,
it was like a machine— a big machine— and you had to learn a sort
of new etiquette for everything you did. Till, finally, it got
so that about all you wanted was to have the fuss over and not
talk about it any more.

I remember running into Chick Bewleigh in the club, three
days before Sally got her decree. You'd like Chick— he's the in-
tellectual type, but a darn good fellow too. And Nan, his wife,
is a peach— one of those big, rangy girls with a crazy sense of
humor. It was nice to talk to him because he was natural and
didn't make any cracks about grass-bachelors or get that look in
his eye. You know the look they get. We talked about Meadow-
field—just the usual news— the Bakers were splitting up and Don
Sikes had a new job and the Wilsons were having a baby. But
it seemed good to hear it.

"For that matter," he said, drawing on his pipe, "we're adding
t|o the population again ourselves. In the fall. How we'll ever
manage four of them! I keep telling Nan she's cockeyed, but
she says they're more fun than a swimming pool and cost less to
keep up, so what can you do!"

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Stephen Vincent Benet

He shook his head and I remembered that Sally always used
to say she wanted six. Only now it would be Lisa, so I mustn't
think about that.

"So that's your recipe for a happy marriage," I said. "Well, I
always wondered."

I was kidding, of course, but he looked quite serious.

"Kinder, Kiiche und Kirche?" he said. "Nope, that doesn't
work any more, what with pre-schools, automats and the movies.
Four children or no four children, Nan could still raise hell if
she felt like raising hell. And so could I, for that matter. Add
blessings of civilization," and his eyes twinkled.

"Well then," I said, "what is it?" I really wanted to know.

"Oh, just bull luck, I suppose. And happening to like what
you've got," he answered, in a sort of embarrassed way.

"You can do that," I said. "And yet — "

He looked awray from me.

"Oh, it was a lot simpler in the old days," he said. "Everything
was for marriage— church, laws, society. And when people got
married, they expected to stay that way. And it made a lot of
people as unhappy as hell. Now the expectation's rather the
other way, at least in this great and beautiful nation and among
people like us. If you get a divorce, it's rather like going to the
dentist— unpleasant sometimes, but lots of people have been there
before. Well, that's a handsome system, too, but it's got its own
casualty list. So there you are. You takes your money and you
makes your choice. And some of us like freedom better than
the institution and some of us like the institution better, but what
most of us would like is to be Don Juan on Thursdays and Bene-
dick, the married man, on Fridays, Saturdays and the rest of the
week. Only that's a bit hard to work out, somehow," and he
grinned.

"All the same," I said, "you and Nan — "

"Well," he said, "I suppose we're exceptions. You see, my
parents weren't married till I was seven. So I'm a conservative.
It might have worked out the other way."

"Oh," I said.

"Yes," he said. "My mother was English, and you may have
heard of English divorce laws. She ran away with my father and
she was perfectly right—her husband was a very extensive brute.
All the same, I was brought up on the other side of the fence,

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Everybody Was Very Nice

and I know something about what it's like. And Nan was a min-
ister's daughter who thought she ought to be free. Well, we
argued about things a good deal. And, finally, I told her that I'd
be very highly complimented to live with her on any terms at all,
but if she wanted to get married, she'd have to expect a marriage,
not a trip to Coney Island. And I made my point rather clear
by blacking her eye, in a taxi, when she told me she was thinking
seriously of spending a week end with my deadly rival, just to
see which one of us she really loved. You can't spend a romantic
week end with somebody when you've got a black eye. But you
can get married with one and we did. She had raw beefsteak
on it till two hours before the wedding, and it was the prettiest
sight I ever saw. Well, that's our simple story."

"Not all of it," I said.

"No," he said, "not all of it. But at least we didn't start in
with any of this bunk about if you meet a handsomer fellow it's
all off. We knew wre were getting into something. Bewleigh's
Easy Guide to Marriage in three installments— you are now lis-
tening to the Voice of Experience, and who cares? Of course,
if we hadn't— ahem— liked each other, I could have blacked her
eye till doomsday and got nothing out of it but a suit for
assault and battery. But nothing's much good unless it's worth
fighting for. And she doesn't look exactly like a downtrodden
wife."

"Nope," I said, "but all the same — "

He stared at me very hard— almost the way he used to when
people were explaining that stocks had reached a permanently
high plateau.

"Exactly," he said. "And there comes a time, no matter what
the intention, when a new face heaves into view and a spark
lights. I'm no Adonis, God knows, but it's happened to me once
or twice. And I know what I do then. I run. I run like a rabbit.
It isn't courageous or adventurous or fine. It isn't even particu-
larly moral, as I think about morals. But I run. Because, when all's
said and done, it takes two people to make a love affair and you
can't have it when one of them's no* there. And, dammit, Nan
knows it, that's the trouble. She'd ask Helen of Troy to dinner
just to see me run. Well, good-by, old man, and our best to
Lisa, of course — "

After he was gone, I went and had dinner in the grill. I did

Stephen Vincent Eenet

a lot of thinking at dinner, but it didn't get me anywhere. When
I was back in the room, I took the receiver off the telephone.
I was going to call long distance. But your voice sounds different
on the phone, and, anyway, the decree would be granted in three
days. So when the girl answered, I told her it was a mistake.

Next week Lisa came back and she and I were married. We
went to Bermuda on our wedding trip. It's a very pretty place.
Do you know, they won't allow an automobile on the island?

The queer thing was that at first I didn't feel married to Lisa
at all. I mean, on the boat, and even at the hotel. She said, "But
how exciting, darling!" and I suppose it was.

Now, of course, we've been married eight years, and that's
always different. The twins will be seven in May—two years
older than Sally's Jerry. I had an idea for a while that Sally might
marry Jim Blake—he always admired her. But I'm glad she
didn't— it would have made things a little too complicated. And
I like McConaghey— I like him fine. We gave them an old Chinese
jar for a wedding present. Lisa picked it out. She has very good
taste and Sally wrote us a fine letter.

I'd like to have you meet Lisa sometime—she's interested in
intelligent people. They're always coming to the apartment-
artists and writers and people like that.

Of course, they don't always turn out the way she expects.
But she's quite a hostess and she knows how to handle things.
There was one youngster that used to rather get in my hair.
He'd call me the Man of Wall Street and ask me what I thought
about Picabia or one of those birds, in a way that sort of said,
"Now watch this guy stumble!" But as soon as Lisa noticed it,
she got rid of him. That shows she's considerate.

Of course, it's different, being married to a person. And I'm
pretty busy these days and so is she. Sometimes, if I get home
and there's going to be a party, I'll just say good night to the
twins and fade out after dinner. But Lisa understands about that,
and I've got my own quarters. She had one of her decorator
friends do the private study and it really looks very nice.

I had Jim Blake in there one night. Well) I had to take him
somewhere. He was getting pretty noisy and Lisa gave me the
high sign. He's doing very well, but he looks pretty hard these
days and I'm afraid he's drinking a good deal, though he doesn't
often show it. I don't think he ever quite got over Sylvia's dying.

3"

Everybody Was Very Nice

Four years ago. They had scarlet fever at the school. It was a
great shock to Lisa, too, of course, but she had the twins and
Jim never married again. But he comes to see us, every once in
a while. Once, when he was tight, he said it was to convince
himself about remaining a bachelor, but I don't think he meant
that.

Now, when I brought him into the study, he looked around
and said, "Shades of Buck Rogers! What one of Lisa's little
dears produced this imitation Wellsian nightmare?"

"Oh, I don't remember," I said. "I think his name was Slivo-
vitz."

"It looks as if it had been designed by a man named Slivovitz,"
he said. "All dental steel and black glass. I recognize the Lisa
touch. You're lucky she didn't put murals of cogwheels on the
walls."

"Well, there was a question of that," I said.

"I bet there was," he said. "Well, here's how, old man! Here's
to two great big wonderful institutions, marriage and divorce!"

I didn't like that very much and told him so. But he just
wagged his head at me.

"I like you, Painter," he said. "I always did. Sometimes I think
you're goofy, but I like you. You can't insult me— I won't let
you. And it isn't your fault."

"What isn't my fault?" I said.

"The setup," he said. "Because, in your simple little heart,
you're an honest monogamous man, Painter— monogamous as
most. And if you'd stayed married to Sally, you'd have led an
honest monogamous life. But they loaded the dice against you,
out at Meadowfield, and now Lord knows where you'll end up.
After all, I was married to Lisa myself for six years or so. Tell
me, isn't it hell?"

"You're drunk," I said.

"In vino veritas" said he. "No, it isn't hell— I take that back.
Lisa's got her damn-fool side, but she's an attractive and interest-
ing woman— or could be, if she'd work at it. But she was brought
up on the idea of Romance with a big R, and she's too bone-lazy
and bone-selfish to work at it very long. There's always some-
thing else, just over the horizon. Well, I got tired of fighting
that, after a while. And so will you. She doesn't want husbands
—she wants clients and followers. Or maybe you're tired already."

3*3

Stephen Vincent Benet

"I think you'd better go home, Jim," I said. "I don't want to
have to ask you."

"Sorry," he said. "In vino veritas. But it's a funny setup, isn't
it? What Lisa wanted was a romantic escapade— and she got
twins. And what you wanted was marriage— and you got Lisa.
As for me," and for a minute his face didn't look drunk any
more, "what I principally wanted was Sylvia and I've lost that.
I could have married again, but I didn't think that'd be good
for her. Now, I'll probably marry some client I've helped with
her decree— we don't touch divorce, as a rule, just a very, very
special line of business for a few important patrons. I know
those— I've had them in the office. And won't that be fun for us
all! What a setup it is!" and he slumped down in his chair and
went to sleep. I let him sleep for a while and then had Briggs
take him down in the other elevator. He called up next day and
apologized— said he knew he must have been noisy, though he
couldn't remember anything he said.

The other time I had somebody in the study was when Sally
came back there once, two years ago. We'd met to talk about
college for Barbara and I'd forgotten some papers I wanted to
show her. We generally meet downtown. But she didn't mind
coming back— Lisa was out, as it happened. It made me feel queer,
taking her up in the elevator and letting her in at the door. She
wasn't like Jim— she thought the study was nice.

Well, we talked over our business and I kept looking at her.
You can see she's older, but her eyes are still that very bright
blue, and she bites her thumb when she's interested. It's a queer
feeling. Of course, I was used to seeing her, but we usually met
downtown. You know, I wouldn't have been a bit surprised if
she'd pushed the bell and said, "Tea, Briggs, I'm home." She
didn't, naturally.

I asked her, once, if she wouldn't take off her hat and she
looked at me in a queer way and said, "So you can show me your
etchings? Dan, Dan, you're a dangerous man!" and for a moment
we both laughed like fools.

"Oh, dear," she said, drying her eyes, "that's very funny. And
now I must be going home."

"Look here, Sally," I said, "I've always told you— but, honestly,
if you need anything— if there's anything — "

3*4

Everybody Was Very Nice

"Of course, Dan," she said. "And we're awfully good friends,
aren't we?" But she was still smiling.

I didn't care. "Friends!" I said. "You know how I think about
you. I always have. And I don't want you to think — "

She patted my shoulder—I'd forgotten the way she used to
do that.

"There," she said. "Mother knows all about it. And we really
are friends, Dan. So — "

"I was a fool."

She looked at me very steadily out of those eyes.

"We were all fools," she said. "Even Lisa. I used to hate her
for a while. I used to hope things would happen to her. Oh, not
very bad things. Just her finding out that you never see a
crooked picture without straightening it, and hearing you say:
*A bird can't fly on one wing,' for the dozenth time. The little
things everybody has to find out and put up with. But I don't
even do that any more."

"If you'd ever learned to put a cork back in a bottle," I said.
"I mean the right cork in the right bottle. But — "

"I do so! No, I suppose I never will." And she laughed. She
took my hands. "Funny, funny, funny," she said. "And funny to
have it all gone and be friends."

"Is it all gone? "I said.

"Why, no, of course not," she said. "I don't suppose it ever
is, quite. Like the boys who took you to dances. And there's
the children, and you can't help remembering. But it's gone.
We had it and lost it. I should have fought for it more, I sup-
pose, but I didn't. And then I was terribly hurt and terribly mad.
But I got over that. And now I'm married to Jerry. And I
wouldn't give him up, or Jerry Junior, for anything in the world.
The only thing that worries me is sometimes when I think it
isn't quite a fair deal for him. After all, he could have married-
well, somebody else. And yet he knows I love him."

"He ought to," I said rather stiffly. "He's a darn lucky guy, if
you ask me."

"No, Dan, I'm the lucky girl. I'm hoping this minute that
Mrs. Potter's X-rays turn out all right. He did a beautiful job
on her. But he always worries."

I dropped her hands.

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Stephen Vincent Benet

"Well, give him my best," I said.

"I will, Dan. He likes you, you know. Really he does. By the
way, have you had any more of that bursitis? There's a new
treatment— he wanted me to ask you — "

"Thanks," I said, "but that all cleared up." .

"I'm glad. And now I must fly. There's always shopping when

rou come in from the suburbs. Give my best to Lisa and tell her
was sorry not to see her. She's out, I suppose."

"Yes," I said. "She'll be sorry to miss you— you wouldn't stay
for a cocktail? She's usually in around then."

"It sounds very dashing, but I mustn't. Jerry Junior lost one of
his turtles and I've got to get him another. Do you know a good
pet shop? Well, Bloomingdale's, I suppose— after all, I've got
other things to get."

"There's a good one two blocks down on Lexington," I said.
"But if you're going to Bloomingdale's — Well, good-by, Sally,
and good luck."

"Good-by, Dan. And good luck to you. And no regrets."

"No regrets," I said, and we shook hands.

There wasn't any point in going down to the street with her,
and besides I had to phone the office. But before I did, I looked
out, and she was just getting into a cab. A person looks different,
somehow, when they don't know you're seeing them. I could
see the way she looked to other people— not young any more, not
the Sally I'd married, not even the Sally I'd talked with, all night
in that cold house. She was a nice married woman who lived in
Montclair and whose husband was a doctor; a nice woman, in
shopping for the day, with a new spring hat and a fifty-trip ticket
in her handbag. She'd had trouble in her life, but she'd worked
it out. And, before she got on the train, she'd have a black-and-
white soda, sitting on a stool at the station, or maybe she didn't
do that any more. There'd be lots of things in her handbag, but
I wouldn't know about any of them nor what locks the keys
fitted. And, if she were dying, they'd send for me, because that
would be etiquette. And the same if I were dying. But we'd had
something and lost it— the way she said— and that was all that was
left.

Now she was that nice Mrs. McConaghey. But she'd never be
quite that to me. And yet, there was no way to go back. You

Everybody Was Very Nice

couldn't even go back to the house in Meadowfield— they'd torn
it down and put up an apartment instead.

So that's why I wanted to talk to you. I'm not complaining
and I'm not the kind of fellow that gets nerves. But I just want
to know— I just want to figure it out. And sometimes it keeps
going round and round in your head. You'd like to be able to tell
your children something, especially when they're growing up.
Well, I know what we'll tell them. But I wonder if it's enough.

Not that we don't get along well when Bud and Barbara come
to see us. Especially Barbara— she's very tactful and she's crazy
about the twins. And now they're growing up, it's easier. Only,
once in a while, something happens that makes you think. I took
Barbara out sailing last summer. She's sixteen and a very sweet
kid, if I say it myself. A lot of kids that age seem pretty hard,
but she isn't.

Well, we were just talking along, and, naturally, you like to
know what your children's plans are. Bud thinks he wants to be
a doctor like McConaghey and I've no objection. I asked Barbara
if she wanted a career, but she said she didn't think so.

"Oh, I'd like to go to college," she said, "and maybe work for
a while, afterwards, the way mother did, you know. But I
haven't any particular talents, dad. I could kid myself, but I
haven't. I guess it's just woman's function and home and babies
for me."

"Well, that sounds all right to me," I said, feeling very paternal.

"Yes," she said, "I like babies. In fact, I think I'll get married
pretty young, just for the experience. The first time probably
won't work, but it ought to teach you some things. And then,
eventually, you might find somebody to tie to."

"So that's the way it is with the modern young woman?" I said.

"Why, of course," she said. "That's what practically all the
girls say— we've talked it all over at school. Of course, sometimes
it takes you quite a while. Like Helen Hastings' mother. She just
got married for the fourth time last year, but he really is a sweet!
He took us all to the matinee when I was visiting Helen and we
nearly died. He's a count, of course, and he's got the darlingest
accent. I don't know whether I'd like a count, though it must
be fun to have little crowns on your handkerchiefs like Helen's
mother. What's the matter, daddy? Are you shocked?"

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Stephen Vincent Eenet

"Don't flatter yourself, young lady— I've been shocked by ex-
perts," I said. "No, I was just thinking. Suppose we— well, sup-
pose your mother and I had stayed together? How would you
have felt about it then?"

"But you didn't, did you?" she said, and her voice wasn't hurt
or anything, just natural. "I mean, almost nobody does any more.
Don't worry, daddy. Bud and I understand all about it— good
gracious, we're grown up! Of course, if you and mother had,"
she said, rather dutifully, "I suppose it would have been very
nice. But then we'd have missed Mac, and he really is a sweet,
and you'd have missed Lisa and the twins. Anyhow, it's all
worked out now. Oh, of course, I'd rather hope it would turn
out all right the first time, if it wasn't too stodgy or sinister. But
you've got to face facts, you know."

"Face facts!" I said. "Dammit, Barbara!"

Then I stopped, because what did I have to say?

Well, that's the works, and if you've got any dope on it, I
wish you'd tell me. There are so few people you can talk to—
that's the trouble. I mean everybody's very nice, but that's not the
same thing. And, if you start thinking too much, the highballs
catch up on you. And you can't afford that— I've never been
much of a drinking man.

The only thing is, where does it stop, if it does? That's the
thing I'm really afraid of.

It may sound silly to you. But I've seen other people— well,
take this Mrs. Hastings, Barbara talked about. Or my old friend
at the club. I wonder if he started in, wanting to get married four
times. I know I didn't— I'm not the type and you know it.

And yet, suppose, well, you do meet somebody who treats you
like a human being. I mean somebody who doesn't think you're
a little goofy because you know more about American Can than
who painted what. Supposing, even, they're quite a lot younger.
That shouldn't make all the difference. After all, I'm no Lo-
thario. And Lisa and I aren't thinking of divorce or anything like
that. But, naturally, we lead our own lives, and you ought to be
able to talk to somebody. Of course, if it could have been Sally.
That was my fault. But it isn't as if Maureen were just in the
floor show. She's got her own specialty number. And, really,
when you get to know her, she's a darned intelligent kid.

ALL AROUND THE TOWN

I like it, winter or summer. But I guess I like it the best when it
gets really hot and they turn on the fire hydrants for a while and
the little kids splash in the water. That's when the noise lasts
till after twelve and, if you look out of the window, you can see
a man in his shirt sleeves and his fat wife beside him, sitting out
in front of the store in a couple of kitchen chairs. I know no-
body's supposed to. But that's the way I like New York.

No, I was born in Brooklyn, but I don't remember much about
that. We moved to the East Side afterwards, before I could re-
member. The old man was a watch repairer— I guess that's where
I get my liking for tinkering at things. He worked at Logan's,
up on Fourteenth, and I remember how disappointed I was when
I found he didn't own the whole store. He was Swiss and Ma
was Irish, so I've got the two sides to me. They get along well
enough, usually, but sometimes they fight.

I know now he had disappointments, but I didn't know it as
a kid. He was always talking about a nice place in the country,
with chickens, but he never got there. Once or twice, before I
was born,— I came along kind of later,— he tried to set up in a
small town. But something always happened, and he had to come
back to the city. He didn't really object to it, but he felt it wasn't
right to raise his kids there. But Ma always said it was up to her
to take care of that. She did a good job by us, too, and she kissed
me on both sides of my face when I got the silver medal for
penmanship at St. Aloysius's. I didn't tell her it was because I'd
promised Jerry Toole I'd beat the mush off him if he came in
ahead of me. He was always the one to get the prizes, and I
thought it was time I had one of my own to take home and
show. My old man made a little wooden box for it and carved
my initials on top. It took him quite a little while to do it,— he
was a slow worker, but very careful,— but it pleased him a lot.
And me, too.

I guess I don't know how to tell a story, because, when I think
about it, it gets all mixed up. They ask you what was the city
like, in those days, and what are you going to tell them? I re-
member the horsecars, to be sure, and the gaslights in the streets,

Stephen Vincent Eenet

and the tangle of overhead wires, like a crazy spiderweb, and
the big white stages. But, when you begin thinking back, you
don't know if you're right or not. My old man had big gray
moustaches that went out like a pair of wings, and he always
wore a derby hat to his work. It was rounder, somehow, than
they make derbies now— I'd recognize it among a million, but
they don't have them any more. And, when Ma was baking,
you could smell the clean, fresh bread all over the house. The
first policeman I ever saw was standing under a gaslight, twirling
his stick in front of his belly. We called him Mister Ryan and
I thought him the greatest and largest man in the world. Well,
that's the thing you remember. That, and the sprinkling carts,
and the brown afternoon in the street, and the old woman who
sold hot chestnuts, with her cheeks as red as red apples, a winter
evening, under the El, when the horses were slipping on the ice.

All the same, it wasn't so big, then. I remember when the Flat-
iron was the biggest one and the out-of-town people bought
postcards, just the way they do, this moment, with the Empire
State. It got built without our knowing it, almost— it went up
into the sky. Nobody decided about it— ft stretched like a boy
growing up, and now, there it is. The city, I mean— yes, the city.
I remember my tall, laughing Irish uncles stamping into the house
and swinging Ma from one to another of them and kissing her
till she'd slap their faces. She was always little Katy, the bird, to
them, though she'd had a great hand in bringing most of them
up. I remember when Uncle Ally got in the Fire Department
and his coming around, proud as Punch, to show us his new uni-
form. A well-set-up man he was, and his helmet very impressive.
He was killed in a big loft fire in the garment district, the year
that I was sixteen. The whole wall fell like a stone and they
couldn't get the bodies for two days.

All the same, they gave the three of them a Department
funeral and there were pieces in all the papers about it. I think
it helped break Ma's heart— he was her favorite brother. But I
rode in the carriage with her and she sat up straight as a ramrod,
in her new black clothes. Afterwards she had me cut the pieces
out of the papers, and it wasn't till night that I heard her crying.
I can hear the cry in my ears, thougn it's many years gone.

My old man and my uncles were polite enough to each other,
but they didn't really get along. He liked to sit out on the

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All Around the Town

stoop, after dinner, smoking his big pipe with the silver lid on
it and reading the evening paper. But he was a quiet man, and
when my uncles came in, full of life and gayety, he'd have less
to say than ever, though he always sent to the corner for the
beer. He'd never have a drop of whiskey in the house, except
for medical purposes—but he liked the steam beer at Schaeffer's,
though I never saw him take too much. The day he came home
with the chill, Ma made him a toddy, but even then he wouldn't
take it. It scared me to see him in bed in the daytime, with his
red-bordered nightshirt on. When you're young, you never
think your parents can get sick or die. I remember that. But he
got over it; and it wasn't till after I was married that he died.

He liked Eileen and she was very good to him— I'll always re-
member that. She used to call him Father Weiss,— she was dainty
in her conversation,— but he'd always say, "Joost Poppa, mem
liebliches Kind''' Then he'd stroke her hand, very gently, with the
tips of his big, clever fingers. That was after Ala had gone, and
we had the responsibility. The girls did what they could, but,
of course, they had their own families by then, except Nellie, and
she wouldn't come to see him if any of the others were coming.

It wouldn't be held a disgrace, now— certainly not. The kids
pray to go into the movies— and isn't that the same? But we held
it a disgrace to us. I guess Nellie was my favorite sister— she took
more after the uncles than the rest of us. She wasn't pretty,
exactly, but she had a black-haired imp in her, and she was the
first to marry of all the girls. I can see her face under the bridal
veil, looking frightened. That's funny for Nellie O'Mara, the
Wild Irish Rose. O'Mara was my grandda's name— she took it
when she ran off with her piano pounder and started showing
her legs on the public stage. The old man, queer enough, didn't
mind so much— he had European ideas about the theatre. But
Ma was horrified and so were the other girls.

I was horrified myself— I had to fight three boys on account
of it. And Nellie's husband, Ed Meany, would come around and
sit on the stoop, looking as if he'd just had a tooth pulled and
telling all he'd done for Nellie, and how, even now, he'd been
willing to take her back. He was a good man, no doubt, but he
talked till you'd feel like shooting him. It wasn't till I had my
own trouble that I knew how he felt.

The other girls married all right and respectable,— Grace and

3*'

Stephen Vincent Benet

Kathleen,— though I never did think much of Carl Schuhmacher.
He always looked too much like one of his own sirloin steaks,
but that was Grace's affair, not mine, and the meat market's a
good business. We thought she could have done better for her-
self, but I don't know, as things turned out. He had some trouble,
during the war, till young Carl was killed at Cantigny. I guess
he's forgotten the trouble— I don't mean forgotten young Carl.
They've still got the picture in the parlor, and the uniform looks
queer, now. But he and John Pollard—that's Kathy's husband-
get on a lot better than they did. There was feeling between the
two families for a long time, over the meat-carving set and the
Irish lace doilies. Well, Grace was always a grabber, and she did
her best to make John Pollard feel small. But he got to be prin-
cipal of Van Twiller for six months before they retired him—
and I've seen his office. He was the steady sort that works up,
and they couldn't keep him out of the position, though they
tried. Now he's got the testimonial framed and it means some-
thing to him. I know that by the way he looks at it, now and
then. Their youngest's teaching at Hunter, and they make a lot
of that.

II

I can't say I've had a bad life, though it hasn't been quite what
1 expected. If I'd gone in with Uncle Martin— he was always the
clever one! And I was his favorite, in a manner of speaking. But
I couldn't stand the bother of politics— not even when he got to
be district leader. He might have gone far, I think, but he picked
the wrong side, in the Hall. That's the unforgivable mistake.
Then, later on, he had his trouble— well, the jury disagreed at
both trials. But it was all over the papers, and that sticks to a
man. My clever, low-spoken uncle! I remember him always, a
little disdainful of the rest of them, and you felt he took a drink
to be friendly, and yet not to be really friendly. And then, at
the trial, he was an old man, with jowls and white hair, answer-
ing just as clever and low-spoken as he always had, and yet not
making a good impression. Because times had changed— that was
all— and yet, how would he have done different? It was in his
blood to rise by any means he could lay hands on, and pull up his

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All Around the Town

family, too. But I'm glad that it didn't interest me-though he
helped me get my first position.

Well, now, I was young and strong, though you might not
think it. I wanted to go on the Force— but then the job came
along. My old man wanted me to follow in his own line of busi-
ness. But I didn't feel like messing around all day with little
wheels and springs and an eyeglass stuck in one eye. They were
building the Subway in those days— well, that's how I started.
It was good pay, for the time, and I wanted to marry Eileen.

It's queer what a man's work in life will turn out to be. You
go around the top of the city— well, I know that, too. But it's
underneath where I've worked, the strong part of my life. You
don't often get to thinking of it— a man's work is his work,
wherever it lies. But, if it wasn't for thousands of men whose
names you've never heard of, all living their lives underground,
it wouldn't be a city, or the same city. I'd think of it, now and
again, on the night shift, when things got quiet above. They'd
have gone to sleep by then,— yes, even the rich and proud,— but
we'd be working. It's hard to put to you so you'll understand it.
You see the place in the street where it's planked over, and the
taxi has to slow up, and you start to swear. But, underneath,
there's the work gangs, and the lights.

It gives you a pride, in a way, to be part of it— at least, at
times. You feel as if the people just walking the streets were dif-
ferent people and didn't know. It's hard for me to explain that— I
don't know the way to say it. But I'm glad I did what I did— if it
did mean ending up in a change booth, and then the pension. It
does for Martha and me.

Eileen always expected more of me, and maybe she was right
to do so. But a young man, in his strength, that's bossing a gang
—well, that's all a young man might like. He could well be wrong
about it, but he'd have to be shown where he was wrong. But,
when I found out what was happening, I broke every stick of
furniture in the flat. 1 did so. She wasn't afraid of me, either—
I'd have killed her if she had been. But she stood there, cold and
proud, with the look she'd had when I first saw her, the look of
a woman untouched. He'd come as a boarder because we had the
extra room that wasn't needed for the baby after all— a whey-
faced, shrewd little man. I wasn't as angry at him, for some

3*3

Stephen Vincent Benet

queer reason—I think he did his best to be decent, through it all.
But she was ambitious, always, and we had no children.

Well, he made the money—he made a great deal before he
died. Mrs. Loring Masters and the big house on Long Island and
the children sent to fine colleges, except for the one that killed
himself. When the daughter was married, I saw the picture in
the paper, and she had just the look of Eileen. I wished her no
ill— I wished her great good fortune. I wished her mother no ill
—yet I wondered if the man had really touched her, after all.
There were times when we lay beside each other, in our youth,
and asked no better. I know that, for that is not something a man
forgets. And it was the same with her. But she wanted other
than that.

I don't know how to tell it all— I wish I knew. How am I to tell
what it's like to come home, to the quiet street, after the night
shift, with nothing but the milkman's horse clopping his way
along— and be tired to bone and marrow and yet satisfied? How
am I to tell what it's like, day after day? The city stretches and
you don't notice it, till one day you go to the Park, and the
buildings have grown up like a fence around it. I remember talk-
ing to my Uncle Matthew. He'd had thirty-five years on the
Force and retired as inspector, and he should know if anyone
did. Well, he talked about many changes, in an old man's voice,
and how there was still as much law in the end of a night stick as
in many law books. But he didn't really touch it.

It reminds me of the one time I went to Proctor's when
Nellie was on the bill. She did well, and I was shamed to the bone,
but I couldn't help applauding. The audience liked her, too— they
knew she came from Third Avenue and was one of their own.
I've given her change at the window, since, and she didn't know
me. Nobody ever looks at the man in the change booth— nobody
knows if he has a face. Why should I be worried about that?
Well, I'm not, to tell you the truth. But it's given me a chuckle,
now and then, when somebody's come along and said, "Why,
Ed!"

Have I given you any idea? Most likely not. I've seen Teddy
Roosevelt, the young dude back from the war, and his teeth wervT
just the way they are in the pictures. I've shook hands with
John McGraw— and seen the sudden, white, Irish rage on his face
when somebody yelled "Muggsy" at him out of the crowd. I've

3H

All Around the Town

seen the Mayor, by the Zoo, showing his boy the polar bears—
and him in his queer black hat and people leaving him alone.
But where do you begin and end? I remember John Pollard,
that's educated, telling me once about some city in Europe
where you dug down and under the city was the ruins of
another city and under that ruin another till you could not
come to the end of them. Now that's something any New
Yorker could understand. It's Jimmy Walker's town and Rabbi
Wise's, it's LaGuardia's and J. P. Morgan's and Cardinal Spell-
man's, and the new strong hitter on the Yankees' and Katharine
Cornell's. It belongs to the telephone repairmen and the Park
Avenue dolls, to the fellow that peddles the racing sheets and
the choirboys in the Cathedral and all the hackers in their cabs.
Now how would I say whose town it was, precisely? Yet I'd
like to know.

Well, now, there was my friend Louis Jordan, went into do-
mestic service. It didn't seem work for a man to me, at first,
and yet I liked him well. I ran into him first at Joe's place, the
summer that Eileen had left me— a very dignified creature, though
drink was his weakness. But you could neither smell it nor see
it on him— at least at that time. The rich man he worked for
had closed his house for the summer and left Louis and his
wife the caretaking of it. A dignified creature, I say, with soft,
puffy hands and a face not far off a priest's. His wife was a
little thin woman, most respectable, in black. But, when he got to
know me well, he'd ask me back for a nip, now and then, at the
house. Man, dear, you never saw a kitchen stove to equal that one
—it could have roasted an ox. Then we'd have our nip and his
wife would run the cards for me, very considerate and respect-
able, for she knew I'd had troubles. And all around us and over
us was the big, grand, stately house with its pictures and its fine
furniture, and yet we the only things alive in it, like mice in a
cheese.

He took me through the whole of it, one warm Sunday after-
noon. There was a bathtub of marble, though it looked like dusty
stone, and the man of the house had twenty suits left in his closet,
and yet he had others, for he'd not appear naked where he was.
It gave me a queer feeling to see all those suits, hanging up on
their hangers. Then, when we got back to the kitchen, we
found that Mrs. Jordan had got hold of the gin bottle and was

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Stephen Vincent Benet

stretched out, highly respectable but stiff as a corpse, on the
floor. So, after that, I knew his sorrow, as he had known mine.
Yet, the next winter, I happened to pass by the house. There was
a red carpet down and all the fine carriages drawing up at the
door. And, just as the door opened, I saw Louis Jordan, like a
sentinel on post in his dress suit, receiving them all, with the
young men to help him. Very fine he looked, and not like the
man with his collar off that I'd drunk with, in the kitchen.
And she, no doubt, was helping equally, with the ladies. Well,
that's a long time ago, and the house is gone.

HI

I've seen some queer sights, I have. I've stuck my head up from
a manhole and seen six elephants, marching down Eighth Avenue,
holding on to each other's tails. It was only for the circus in
Madison Square Garden, but it gave you a turn. Then there was
the bar the midgets used to frequent. I don't remember the name
of it, but I stumbled in there one night and thought I'd gone
mad when all the little faces turned at me. I've seen other things
as well. I've seen them shower the ticker tape and the torn paper
from the high buildings and got a glimpse of the face of the
man they were welcoming. It might be one face or another, but
it looked white and dazzled. And next week you'd have forgotten
his name. x

I used to go to the ball games often, with Martha, and that's a
sight, too, when the game goes into extra innings and the crowd
sits tight and the shadow begins to grow on the infield. Her
brother was with the Giants, for a year— Swede Nansen, they
called him— a tall, blond, slow-spoken boy. He could pitch with
the best, on his day, but he liked farming better, which is a
queer thing in a man. I remember the time he struck out nine
Cubs in five innings, and the yelling of the crowd. But the next
year his arm went bad on him and nothing could be done for
it. He played for Atlanta a while,— the South being recom-
mended for him,— then he gave up the game and settled down to
his farming, and now, every Christmas, he sends us a box of
pecans. But his record's still in the books, and the game where
he beat Alexander. I should like to see him again, for he was
a man I respected, but I doubt now that I will.

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All Around the Town

She's been a good wife to me, Martha, and never ashamed of a
man that worked with his hands— though I do not do so any
more. At one time we had the money, and that was a contrary
experience. She was left five hundred dollars, and that sharp
little fellow, Abe Leavis, told us what to buy. At first I felt queer,
going into the grand office, but soon I saw my money was as
good as another's. Yet, though I will not criticize any other
man's work, it does not seem to me a man's occupation to do
nothing but watch the figures change on a blackboard. They
thought, for a while, that I was lucky, for those days had no
sense to them at all. An4 indeed, I thought so myself. I've had
men in their handmade suits ask me for advice, and take it, too.
They'd have taken advice, at that time, from a horse, if the horse
was winning on the market. Well, it was forty thousand dollars
before it was nothing— so you can say that I've had the experience
of riches. It takes a man's mind off his work— that's all I can say.
But we had the sealskin coat for Martha— and the washing
machine.

If I told you about Abe Leavis, that would be part of it, too.
That was a rubber ball of a man, a rubber ball bounced up and
down the pavements. I have seen him so thin and pitiful it would
break your heart; I have seen him round and plump, with his
pockets full of cigars. You could kill that man, but you could
not put him down. But how he loved the smell and taste of the
city! I'll forgive a man much for that. No, it wasn't my city he
loved— it was Fifth and Park and the riches— the big shining toy-
store where everything's for sale. It was like a tonic to him to
pay maybe twenty dollars for a pair of theatre tickets and get
there late for the play. But that's part of it, too.

Now there's whole sections and locations I've never seen. It
wasn't so long ago that I visited my grandnephew, Francis.
He married a Jewish girl when he'd finished his interneship—
a pretty, bright young thing— and they've got an apartment on
the Grand Concourse. I walked twenty blocks after I'd left
them and it was like another city. And yet it couldn't have
been any other city. It couldn't have been.

I don't know if it's the two rivers make it— though I knew
the captain of the Michael T. McQuillan, and a good man he
was and told me the work there is to get the big, proud liners
into dock. I don't know if it's the climate that makes it— the fine

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Stephen Vincent Benet

fall and the dirty winter, the hot summer and the spring that
comes with the flower carts and touches your heart. It's a healthy
climate,, I've always thought, though others may differ. Now
when Martha and I were first married we'd go as far as Far
Rockaway for a bite of the summer. And that was a change and
healthy— but I noticed we were glad to get back where you knew
the look of the streets. I don't know— I couldn't say— it's hard for
me to tell.

Well, now, there's the being old. But we got along very com-
fortable. There's a lot of them move away— to Florida, let's say
—and then they send you the postcards, saying what a fine time
they're having. No doubt they are, if they like it, but I never
could see it made them look any younger. There was my friend,
the Dutchman, that retired from his delicatessen and went to live
with his granddaughter at White Plains. It was a nice house,
to be sure, and he kept the lawn very well cut. I congratulated
him on that. Then he looked at me and there was a grief in his
eyes. "Vy, Ed," he said, "it's all right. But you can't cut the lawn
all day. I tell you, some nights, I vake up and listen for the noise
of the El. And, ven it ain't there, I feel old. Ed, I'd give ten
dollars if Mrs. Burke was to come in— the fussy one— just to tell
me she vouldn't put up with this kind of service no more." Then
his granddaughter came to tell him it was time for his nap, and,
though she was very polite, I knew I should go away. Thank
God, I've been spared that— though we've neither chick nor child.

It's cool enough in the flat, and if there's a breeze we get it.
And there's always something to look at— the boys playing ball in
the streets, shouting under the light, summer evenings, and the
taxis drawing up to the apartment house opposite, and a young
woman coming out, with bare arms. Phil Kelly, the doorman
there, is a friend of mine, though he comes from Ulster. They'd
be surprised, in that house, if they knew the things that I know
about them. I don't mean any ugly things— just the odd little
circumstances. It's my hope that the pretty dark girl will marry
the young man with glasses. He's steadier than the one that's bet-
ter-dressed. I'd like to tell her that, only how would I tell her?

There isn't a trace or a place of my childhood's house. There
isn't a trace or a place of the house where I lived with Eileen.
Now last year, when I went to the cemetery, it took me an

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All Around the Town

hour to find Uncle Martin's grave, though they'd kept it decent,
and he was a well-known man.

You'd think such a thing might make you sad, but again, it
does not. It's comfortable, in a way, to be like the dust in the air.
It's hard for me to tell it, and yet, what I mean is this. Last
summer I went to the Fair, and that's a great sight, no doubt of
it. Oh, the crowds and the proud buildings of the nations of
the earth and the horns tooting "All around the town"!

It was some State Day when we went there, and there was the
Governor of the State, with the sirens blowing in front of him
to clear the way. Well, I wouldn't remember which State it was,
but that makes little difference. There were all the top hats there
to receive him, and that's only courtesy. And yet he was swal-
lowed up in the Fair itself, and, except for the people from his
own State, there was no one knew he was there, or cared at all.
So it came upon me, that day—sitting on a bench, with my feet
tired— it all came upon me. For they all seemed to pass by me, the
rich and the great and the proud, with the sirens blowing in front
of them. And yet, that wasn't the city, and when the Fair itself
was finished, there'd be many still in the city that hadn't even
seen it. It was a fine sight to see, but they hadn't missed it, in
their lives.

And so it was with the most of us— and with the city itself. For
it wasn't the mayors and the millionaires and the Presidents—
though I've walked by the President's house and seen him go in.
It was my Uncle Ally and my Uncle Matthew, my friend Louis
Jordan and my sister, Nellie O'AIara, the boys that were on the
gang with me and the boys that died underground. It's the small,
new honeymoon couples, buying a coffee ring at the corner
bakery, and the guards who walk the museums, clean and pudgy;
the thieves in the morning round-up and the good men, like my
old man, who live and die without notice. It's all that, and the
moon at the end of the street where you never expected a moon.

I said, "Martha, I'm tired, I think," and she took me home. So
next day, when I was no better, she called my grandnephew,
Francis. He's been very kind, and, where some mi^ht be afraid of
the hospital, I am not. It's a good, sunny room, the ward, and
the nurses very attentive to an old man. From where I lie on
my back, I can see the river.

3*9

Stephen Vincent Benet

So, since it's to be that way, I'm glad it's to be that way.
Wouldn't I have been the fool to go to a place like White
Plains and die there? A man could hardly die easy in those foreign
places—a man who's seen what I've seen. I'm aware there are
other cities. The day orderly comes from London, and we've
talked about that one.

I was born in Brooklyn, but we moved to the East Side,
afterwards. I remember my mother's baking bread, and the
Empire State, when it was new. You won't remember Swede
Nansen, though his record's in the book, but I remember him.
You won't remember Martin O'Mara, but he was part of it.
You won't remember Logan's on Fourteenth Street, but it was
a fine, large store.

When they bomb the town to pieces, with their planes from
the sky, there'll be a big ghost left. When it's gone, they'd better
let the sea come in and cover it, for there never will be one like
'it in the ages of man again.

GLAMOUR

I used to read quite a lot of books when I was younger, but
now they just make me sore. Marian keeps on bringing them
back from the lending library and, occasionally, I'll pick one
up and read a few chapters, but sooner or later you're bound to
strike something that makes you sick. I don't mean dirt or any-
thing—just foolishness, and people acting the way they never act.
Of course, the books she reads are mostly love stories. I suppose
they're the worst kind.

But what I understand least is the money angle. It takes money
to get drunk and it takes money to go around with a girl— at
least that's been my experience. But the people in those books
seem to have invented a special kind of money— it only gets spent
on a party or a trip. The rest of the time they might as well
be paying their bills with wampum, as far as you can figure it out.

Of course, often enough, the people in books are poor. But
then they're so darn poor, it's crazy. And, often enough, just
when everything's at its worst, some handy little legacy comes
and the new life opens out before them right away, like a

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Glamour

great big tulip. Well, I only had one legacy in my life and I
know what I did with that. It darn near ruined me.

Uncle Bannard died up in Vermont in 1924, and when his
estate was settled, it came to $1237.62 apiece for Lou and me.
Lou's husband put her share in Greater Los Angeles real estate
—they live out on the Coast— and I guess they've done pretty well.
But I took mine and quit the firm I was with, Rosenberg and
Jenkins, mechanical toys and novelties, and went to Brooklyn
to write a novel.

It sounds crazy, looking back on it. But I was a bug about
reading and writing in those days, and I'd done some advertis-
ing copy for the firm that pulled. And that was the time when
everybody was getting steamed up about "the new American
writers," and it looked like a game without much overhead. I'd
just missed the war— I was seventeen when it finished— and I'd
missed college because of father's death. In fact, I hadn't done
much of anything I really wanted since I had to quit high school
—though the novelty business was all right as businesses go. So
when I got a chance to cut loose, I cut.

I figured I could easily live a year on the twelve hundred, and,
at first, I thought of France. But there'd be the nuisance of
learning frog-talk and the passage there and back. Besides, I
wanted to be near a big library. My novel was going to be about
the American Revolution, if you can picture it. I'd read "Henry
Esmond" over and over and I wanted to write a book like that.

I guess it must have been a bunch of my New England ances-
tors that picked Brooklyn for me. They were pioneers, all right
—but, gosh, how they hated to take any chance but a big one!
And I'm like that myself. I like to feel tidy in my mind when
I'm taking a chance.

I figured I could be as solitary in Brooklyn as I could in Pisa,
and a lot more comfortable. I knew how many words it took to
make a novel— I'd counted some of them— so I bought enough
paper and a second-hand typewriter and pencils and erasers.
That about cleaned out my ready cash. I swore I wouldn't touch
the legacy till I was really at work. But I felt like a million dollars
—I swear I felt as if I were looking for treasure— when I got into
the subway that shiny autumn day, and started across the river to
look for a room.

It may have been my ancestors that sent me to Brooklyn, but

Stephen Vincent Benet

I don't know what landed me at Mrs. Forge's. Old Wrestling
Southgate, the one who was bothered with witches, would prob-
ably have called it a flowered snare of the fiend. And I'm not so
sure, looking back, that he'd have been wrong.

Mrs. Forge opened the door herself— Serena was out. They'd
talked about putting an ad in the paper but they'd just never got
around to it; and, naturally, they wouldn't have put up a card.
If it hadn't looked like the sort of house I'd wanted, I'd never
have rung the bell. As it was, when she came to the door, I
thought that I had made a mistake. So the first thing I did was
beg her pardon.

She had on her black silk dress—the one with the white ruffles
—just as if she were going out calling in the barouche. The minute
she started to speak, I knew she was Southern. They all had that
voice. I won't try to describe it.. There's nothing worse than a
whiny one— it beats the New England twang. But theirs didn't
whine. They made you think of the sun and long afternoons and
slow rivers— and time, time, time, just sliding along like a current,
not going anywhere particular, but gay.

I think she liked my begging her pardon, for she took me in
and gave me a slice of fruit cake and some lemonade. And I
listened to her talk and felt, somehow, as if I'd been frozen for
a long time and was just beginning to get warm. There was
always a pitcher of lemonade in the ice-box, though the girls
drank "coke," mostly. I've seen them come in from the snow, in
the dead of winter, and drink it. They didn't think much of the
cold, anyway, so they more or less pretended it didn't exist. They
were that way.

The room was exactly what I wanted— big and sunny, with an
outlook over a little backyard where there was the wreck of a
forsythia bush and some spindly grass. I've forgotten to say the
house was in one of those old-fashioned side-streets, not far from
Prospect Park. But it doesn't matter where it was. It must be
gone, now.

You know, it took all my nerve to ask Mrs. Forge the price.
She was very polite, but she made me feel like a guest. I don't
know if you can understand that. And then she couldn't tell me.

"Well, now, Mr. Southgate," she said, in that soft, gentle,
helpless voice that ran on as inexorably as water, "I wish my
daughter Eva had been here to receive you. My daughter Eva

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Glamour

has accepted a business position since we came here for my
daughter Melissa's art training. And I said, only this morning,
'Eva, honey, suppose Serena's away and some young person
comes here, askin' for that room. I'll be bound to say somethin'
to them, sugar, and I'll feel right embarrassed.' But just then some
little boys started shoutin' down the street and I never did rightly
hear what she answered. So if you're in a hurry, Mr. Southgate,
I don't just know what we can do."

"I could leave a deposit," I said. I'd noticed, by this time, that
the black silk had a tear in it and that she was wearing a pair of
run-down ball-slippers—incredibly small they were. But, all the
same, she looked like a duchess.

"Why, I suppose you could, Mr. Southgate," she said, with
an obvious lack of interest. "I suppose that would be businesslike.
You gentlemen in the North are always so interested in business.
I recollect Mr. Forge sayin' before he died, 'Call them d —
Yankees if you like, Milly, but we've all got to live in the same
country and I've met some without horns.' Mr. Forge was always
so humorous. So, you see, we're quite accustomed to Northern-
ers. You don't hnppen to be kin to the Mobile Southgates, do
you, Mr. Southgate? You'll excuse an old lady's askin'— but you
seem to favor them a little, now your face is in the light."

I'm not trying to put down just the way she talked—she didn't
say "ah" and "nah"— it was something lighter and suaver. But
her talk went on like that. They all did it. It wasn't nervousness
or trying to impress you. They found it as easy and restful to
talk as most of us do to keep still; and, if the talk never got any-
where, they'd never expected it would. It was like a drug— it
made life into a dream. And, of course, it isn't that.

Finally, I simply went for my stuff and moved in. I didn't
know how much I was paying or what meals would be included
in it, but I somehow felt that these things would be shown unto
me when the time was ripe. That's what an hour and a half
with Mrs. Forge did to me. But I did resolve to have a clear
understanding with "my daughter, Eva," who seemed to be the
business head of the family.

Serena let me in when I came back. I gave her fifty cents to
get in her good graces and she took an instant dislike to me which
never wavered. She was small and black and withered, with
bright little sparks of eyes. I don't know how long she'd been

333

Stephen Vincent Benet

with them, but I thought of her growing on the family, like
nistletoe, from immemorial time.

Whenever I heard her singing in the kitchen, I felt as if she
ivere putting a private curse on me. "Honey-bird—" she'd croon
-"honey-bird, no one gwine tuh fly away wid mah honey-bird.
Die buzzard, he try his wings— he flap and he flap— man wid a
*un he see him— hi, hi, hi— shoot ole buzzard wid a buckshot and
lever tetch mah honey-bird."

I knew who the old buzzard was, all right. And it may sound
funny— but it wasn't. It was spooky. Eva wouldn't see it; they'd
ill treat Serena like a combination of unavoidable nuisance and
:roublesome child. I don't understand how they can treat servants
:hat way. I mean friendly and grand at the same time. It isn't
lataral.

It sounds as if I were trying to keep from telling about Eva.
[ don't know why I'm doing that.

I got unpacked and pretty well settled. My room was on the
:hird floor, back, but I could hear the girls coming home. There'd
3e the door and steps and a voice saying, "Honey, I'm so tired
-I'm just plumb dragged out," and Mrs. Forge saying, "Now,
loney, you rest yourself." There were three of those. I kind of
wondered why they were all so tired. Later on, I found that was
ust something they said.

But then Mrs. Forge would begin to talk and they wouldn't
)e tired any more. They'd be quite excited and there'd be a good
leal of laughter. I began to feel very uncomfortable. And then I
jot stubborn. After all, I'd rented the room.

So, when Eva finally knocked at the door, I just grunted,
'Come in!" the way you would to a chamber-maid. She opened
he door and stood in the doorway, hesitant. I imagine Melissa
lad bet her she wouldn't have the nerve.

"Mr. Southgate, I believe?" she said, quite vaguely, as if I
night be anything from a cloud to a chest of drawers.

"Dr. Livingstone, I presume?" I said. There was an old picture
3n the wall— the two Englishmen meeting formally in the middle
:>f a paper jungle. But I'll hand her something— she saw I wasn't
rrying to be fresh.

"I reckon we have been making a lot of racket," she said. "But
that's mostly Melissa. She never was rightly raised. Won't you

334

Glamour

give us the favor of your company downstairs, Mr. Southgate?
we-all don't act crazy. We just sound like it."

She was dark, you know, and yet she had that white skin.
There's a kind of flower called fr,eesia— when the petals are very
white, they have the color of her skin. And there's a strong sweet-
ness to it— strong and ghostly at the same time. It smells like
spring with the ghosts in it, between afternoon and dusk. And
there's a word they call glamour. It was there.

She had small white teeth and red lips. There was one little
freckle in the hollow of her throat— I don't know how she hap-
pened to have only one. Louisa was the beauty and Melissa the
artist. They'd settled it that way. I couldn't have fallen in love
with Louisa or Melissa. And yet, I liked to see them all together—
the three sisters— I'd liked to have lived in a big, cool house by a
river and spent my life seeing them all together. What fool
thoughts you get, when you're young! I'd be the Northern cousin
who managed the place. I used to send myself to sleep with it,
every night, for months.

Mrs. Forge wasn't in it, or Serena. It was a big place— it went
on for miles and miles. Most of the land wasn't good for much
and the Negroes were bone-lazy, but I made them work. I'd get
up in the first mist of morning and be in the saddle all day, over-
seeing and planning. But, always, I'd be coming back, on a tired
horse, up that flowery avenue and they'd be waiting for me on
the porch, the three white dresses bunched like a bouquet.

They'd be nice to me, because I was weary, and I'd go upstairs
to the room looking over the river and change out of my hot
clothes and wash. Then Eva would send me up a long drink with
mint in it and I'd take it slowly. After supper, when I wasn't do-
ing accounts, they'd sing or we'd all play some foolish sort of
round game with ivory counters. I guess I got most of it out of
books, but it was very real to me. That's one trouble with books
—you get things out of them.

Often we got old, but it never seemed to change us much.
Ojice in a while the other girls were married and, sometimes, I
married Eva, But we never had any children and none of us ever
moved away. I kept on working like a dog and they accepted it
and I was content. We had quite a few neighbors, at first, but I
got tired of that. So I made it a river island you could only reach
by boat, and that was more satisfactory.

335

Stephen Vincent Benet

It wasn't a dream, you know, or anything sappy like that. I
just made it up in my head. Toward the end of the year, I'd lie
awake for hours, making it up, but it never seemed to tire me.
I never really told Eva about it at all, not even when we were
engaged. Maybe it would have made a difference, but I don't
think so.

She wasn't the kind of person you'd tell any dreams to. She was
in the dream. I don't mean she was noble or fatal or like a ghost.
I've had her in my arms and she was warm and alive and you
could have had children by her, because things are that way. But
that wasn't the point— that wasn't the point at all.

She didn't even have much imagination. None of them had.
They just lived, like trees. They didn't plan or foresee. I've spent
hours trying to explain to Mrs. Forge that, if you had ten dollars,
it wasn't just ten dollars, it was something you could put in a sav-
ings bank. She'd listen, very politely. But ten dollars, to her, was
just something that went away. They thought it was fine if you
had money, but they thought it was equally fine if you had a
good-looking nose. Money was rather like rain to them— it fell or
it didn't— and, they knew that there wasn't any way to make it
rain.

I'm sure they'd never have come North at all, if it hadn't been
for some obscure family dispute. They often seemed to wonder
about it themselves. And I heard the dispute talked about dozens
of times but I never really got the gist of it, except that it was con-
nected with two things, the new spur-track to the turpentine
plant, and Cousin Belle. "Cousin Belle, she just acted so mean-
she gave up her manners," Mrs. Forge would say, placidly. "She
left us no reco'se, Bannard— no reco'se at all." And then the girls
would chime in. I suppose they got the money to come North
from selling land to the turpentine plant, but even of that I am
not sure.

Anyhow, they had golden visions, as they would have. Louisa
was going to be a great actress and Melissa a great artist— and Eva
—I don't know exactly what Eva expected, even now. But it was
something. And it was all going to happen without any real work,
it was going to fall from a cloud. Oh, yes, Melissa and Louisa
went to classes and Eva had a job, but those, you felt, were stop-
gaps. They were passing the time till the cloud opened and tne
manna fell.

Glamour

I'll say this for them— it didn't seem to hurt them to have their
visions fail. The only person it really hurt was me.

Because I believed them, at first. How could I help it? The
dream I had wasn't so wrong. They were living on an island— an
island in the middle of Brooklyn— a piece of where they came
from. People came to the house— art students and such— there
were always plenty of young men. But, once inside the house,
they submitted to the house. Serena would pass the cold ham, at
supper, and you'd look out of the window and be surprised to
find it snowing, for the window should have been open and the
warm night coming through. I don't know what roomers they'd
ever had before, but in my time there was only myself and Mr.
Budd. He was a fat little clerk of fifty, very respectable, and he
stayed because of the food, for Serena was a magnificent, waste-
ful cook.

Yes, I believed it, I believed in it all. It was like an enchant-
ment. It was glamour. I believed in all they said and I saw them
all going back to Chantry— the three famous sisters with their
three distinguished husbands— like people in a fairy-tale.

We'd all have breakfast together, but the only person who
talked much then was Mr. Budd. The Forges never were properly
alive till later in the day. At breakfast, you saw them through a
veil. Sometimes I'd feel my heart beat, staring at Eva, because she
looked like one of those shut flowers in greenhouses— something
shut and mysterious so you fairly held your breath, waiting for it
to open. I suppose it was just because she took a long time to
wake up.

Then Mr. Budd and the girls would go away, and, when my
bed was made, I'd go up and work. I'm not saying much about
the novel, but I worked hard on it. I'd made a little chart on card-
board with 365 squares and each day I'd ink one in.

I'd go out for lunch and take a walk afterwards. A man has to
have regular exercise, and that's free. Then I'd work some more,
until they started to come home. I couldn't work after that— not
after the first months. But I'd make myself not listen for Eva's
step.

The first time I kissed Eva was the New Year's party. One of
Louisa's beaus had brought some red wine and we were singing
and fooling around. Serena was off for the evening and Eva and
I were out in the kitchen, looking for clean glasses. We were

337

Stephen Vincent Benet

both feeling gay and it just seemed natural. I didn't even think of
it again till the next afternoon, when we'd all gone to the movies.
And then I suddenly began to shake all over, as if I had a chill,
remembering, and she said, "What is it, honey?" and her hand
slipped into my hand.

That was how it began. And that night I started inventing the
river plantation. And I'm not a fool and I've been around. But I
held hands with that girl through January, February, and most
of March before I really kissed her again. I can't explain it at all.
She wasn't being coy or mean or trying to fight me. It was as if
we were floating downstream in a boat together, and it was so
pleasant to look at her and be near her, you didn't need any more.
The pain hadn't started, then.

And yet, all through that time, something in me was fighting,
fighting, to get out of the boat, to get away from the river. It
wasn't my river at all, you know. It never was. And part of me
knew it. But, when you're in love, you haven't got common sense.

By the end of March, the novel was more than half finished.
I'd allowed two months for revision and making contacts, which
seemed sensible. And, one evening, it was cold, and Eva and I
took a walk in the park. And when we came in, Mrs. Forge made
us some hot cocoa— the other girls had gone to bed early, for
once— and, while we were drinking it, Mrs, Forge fell asleep in
her chair. And we put down our cups, as if it were a signal, and
kissed— and the house was very quiet and we could hear her
breathing, like sleep itself, through the long kiss.

Next morning, I woke up and the air felt warm and, when I
looked out in the yard, there were leaves on the forsythia bush.
Eva was just the same at breakfast, shut and mysterious, and I
was just the same. But, when I went up to work, I shook my fist
at old Wrestling Southgate, the fellow that was bothered with
witches. Because I was going to marry Eva, and he could go to
grass.

I tell you, they didn't plan or foresee. I told Mrs. Forge very
straight just how I stood—finances and everything— and they
treated it like a party. They were all as kind and excited as they
could be, except Serena. She just refused to believe it and sang a
lot more about buzzards. And, somehow or other, that made me
feel queerer than ever. Because I knew Serena hated me but I
knew she was a real person. I could understand her, she was close

338

Glamour

t^> the ground. And I loved the others but I didn't understand
them, and sometimes I wouldn't be sure they were quite real. It
was that way with Eva, even though we were in love.

I could kiss her but I couldn't be sure that she was always there
when I kissed her. It wasn't coldness, it was merely another
climate. I could talk for hours about what we were going to do
when we were married and every time I stopped she'd say, "Go
on, honey, it makes me feel so nice to hear you talk." But she'd
have been as pleased if I'd sung it instead. God knows I didn't ex-
pect her to understand the novelty business, or even writing. But,
sometimes, I'd honestly feel as if we didn't speak the same lan-
guage. Which was foolish, because she wasn't foreign.

I remember getting angry with her one evening because I
found out she was still writing to this boy friend, down South,
and hadn't even told him about Us. She opened her eyes very
wide.

"Why, honey," she said, in the most reasonable of voices, "I
couldn't stop writing Furfew right off like that. I've just always
been sort of engaged to Furfew."

"Well, now you're engaged to me," I said.

"I know," she said. "That's why I can't stop writing him,
honey. It would hurt Furfew something dreadful if he knew I
had to stop writing him because I was engaged to you."

"Look here," I said, wondering which of us was crazy, "are we
going to be married?"

"Of co'se, honey."

"Then what," I said, "has this Furfew got to do with it? Are

you engaged to him or me?"
"Of co'se I'm en

engaged to you, honey, and we're going to get
married. But Furfew, he's kind of like kin, and we been engaged
a long time. It seems right mean and uncivil to break off with
him short like that."

"I don't believe it," I said, "I don't believe there are any Fur-
fews. It sounds like something you grow under glass. What's he
like?"

She thought for a long time.

"He's right cute," she said finally. "But he's got a little doin's of
a black moustache."

I managed to find out, however, that he owned the turpentine
plant and was considered quite the John D. Rockefeller of Chan-

339

Stephen Vincent Eenet

try. I was so used to no one in Chantry ever having any money
that was worth anything, that this came as an unpleasing surprise.
After that, Furfew used to try to come to the river plantation in
a very shiny motor-launch with a red-and-white awning and
I would warn him off with a shotgun.

But then the money business began. You like to give a girl

Cisents when you're in love— you like to do things right. Well,
rd knows, Eva was no gold-digger—she was as likely to be
pleased with a soda as a pair of imported gloves. On the other
hand, she was as likely to be pleased with the gloves.

I kept on schedule with the work, but I couldn't with the
money. Each week, I'd be just a little over the line. I tell you,
the people in books don't know about money. The people who
write them can tell what it's like to be broke. But they don't tell
what it's like to go around with clothes enough to cover you and
food enough to satisfy you, and still have your heart's desire de-
pend on money you haven't got.

Sure, I could have gone back in the novelty business and Eva
could have kept on working. That would have been right for
nine people out of ten. But it wouldn't have been right for the
way I felt about Eva. It can be like that.

I wanted to come to her— oh, like a rescuer, I suppose. Like a
prince, like the Northern cousin that saved the plantation. I
didn't want to make the best of things— I wanted it all. You can't
compromise with glamour. Or that's the way I feel.

Besides, I'd put in eight months' work on that novel and it
didn't seem sensible to throw it all away. It might be a ladder to
climb out on. It might have been.

Eva never complained, but she never understood. She'd just
say we could all go back and live in Chantry. Well, I'm not that
kind of man. If it had only been the river plantation! But, by
now, I knew Chantry as well as if I'd been born there, and there
wasn't a thing for me to do. Except maybe a job in Furfew's tur-
pentine plant. And wouldn't that nave been pretty?

Then, gradually, I got to know that the Forges, too, were al-
most at the end of their string. I had to get it casually— they
never talked about those things directly. But when you keep on
spending what you've got, there comes a time when you don't
have it any more. Only, it always surprised them. I wish I was
built that way.

340

Glamour

It was the middle of July by this time, and one Saturday after-
noon Eva came home and said she'd been let off at her office.
They were cutting down the staff. I'd just been going over my
accounts, and when she told me that, I started laughing as if I
couldn't stop.

She looked rather surprised at first, but then she laughed, too.
"Why, honey," she said, "you're the killin'est. You always
take things so serious. And then, sometimes, you don't take them
serious a bit."

"It's an old Northern custom," I said. "They call it 'Laugh,
clown, laugh.' For God's sake, Eva, what are we going to do?"
"Why, honey," she said, "I suppose I could get me another
position." She never told me it was up to me. She never would
have. "But I just sort of despise those mean old offices. Do you
think I ought to get me another position, honey?"

"Oh, darling, it doesn't matter," I said, still laughing. "Noth-
ing matters but us."

"That's mighty sweet of you, honey," she said and she looked
relieved. "That's just the way I feel. And, when we get married,
we'll fix things up right nice for Melissa and Louisa, won't we?
And mother, of co'se, because she just can't stand Cousin Belle."
"Sure," I said. "Sure. When we're married, we'll fix up every-
thing." And we went out in the back yard to look at the forsythia
bush. But that night, Furfew brought his launch inshore and
landed on the lower end of the island. He pitched camp there,
and I could see his fire at night, through a glass.

I can't describe the next two months very well. They were
all mixed up, the reality and the dream. Alelissa and Louisa had
to give up their classes, so we were all home, and lots of people
came to the house. Some of them were callers and some of them
were bill-collectors but, whoever they were, they generally
stayed to a meal. Serena never minded that, she liked company.
I remember paying a grocery bill, with almost the last of my
legacy, toward the end. There were eight hams on the bill and
ten cases of "coke." It hadn't been paid for a long time.

Often, we'd all pile into an old Ford that belonged to one of
the art students and go down to a public beach for the day. Eva
didn't care so much about swimming but she loved to lie in the
sand. And I'd lie beside her, painfully happy, and we'd hardly
say anything at all. My God, but she was beautiful against those

Stephen Vincent Eenet

beach colors— the clear greens of the water and the hot white
and tan of the sand. But then, she was just as beautiful, sitting in
the plush rocker in the front parlor, under that green lamp.

They say the time between the Ordinance of Secession and the
firing on Sumter was one of the gayest seasons Charleston ever
had. I can understand that. They'd come to the brink of some-
thing, and fate was out of their hands. I got to feel that way.

Everything mixed, I tell you, everything mixed. I'd be sitting
on the beach with Eva and, at the same time, I'd be riding around
the river plantation, getting reports from my foreman and plan-
ning years ahead. I got to love that place. Even toward the end,
it was safe, it didn't change. Of course, we kept having more and
more trouble with Furfew; he kept extending his lines from the
lower end of the island, but it never came to actual warfare-
just fights between our men.

Meanwhile, I finished the novel and started revising it. And
sometimes Eva would say why didn't we get married, anyway,
and I knew we couldn't. You can't get married without some
future ahead of you. So we started having arguments, and that
was bad.

Why didn't I just seduce her like the big, brave heroes in
books? Well, there were times when I thought it might be the
answer for both of us. But it never happened. It wasn't shame or
good principles. It just isn't so awfully easy to seduce a dream.

I knew they were writing letters but I didn't want to know
any more. I knew the legacy was gone and my savings account
was going, but I didn't care. I just wanted things to go on.

Finally, I heard that Furfew was coming North. I was gbing
around like a sleepwalker most of the time, then, so it didn't hit
me, at first. And then it did hit me.

Eva and I were out in the back yard. We'd fixed up an old
swing seat there and it was dusky. Serena was humming in the
kitchen. "Ole buzzard he fly away now— buzzard he fly away."
I can't sing, but I can remember the way she sang it. It's funny
how things stick in your head.

Eva had her head on my shoulder and my arms were around
her. But we were as far away as Brooklyn and New York with
the bridges down. Somebody was making love, but it wasn't us.

"When's he coming?" I said, finally.

34*

Glamour

"He's drivin' up in his car," she said. "He started yesterday."

"Young Lochinvar complete with windshield," I said. "He
ought to be careful of those roads. Has he got a good car?"

"Yes," she said. "He's got a right pretty car."

"Oh, Eva, Eva," I said. "Doesn't it break your heart?"

"Why, honey," she said. "Come here to me."

We held each other a long time. She was very gentle. I'll re-
member that.

I stayed up most of that night, finishing revision on the novel.
And, before I went to sleep, Furfew came to the house on the
river plantation and walked in. I was standing in the hall and I
couldn't lift a hand to him. So then I knew how it was going
to be.

He came in the flesh, next afternoon. Yes, it was a good car.
But he didn't look like Benedict Arnold. He was tall and black-
haired and soft-voiced and he had on the sort of clothes they
wear. He wasn't so old, either, not much older than I was. But
the minute I saw him beside Eva, I knew it was all up. You only
had to look at them. They were the same kind.

Oh, sure, he was a good business man. I got that in a minute.
But, underneath all the externals, they were the same kind. It
hadn't anything to do with the faithfulness or meanness. They
were just the same breed of cats. If you're a dog and you fall
in love with a cat, that's just your hard luck.

He'd brought up some corn with him and he and I sat up late,
drinking it. We were awfully polite and noble in our conversa-
tion but we got things settled just the same. The funny thing is,
I liked him. He was Young Lochinvar, he was little Mr. Fix-it,
he was death and destruction to me, but I couldn't help liking
him. He could have come to the island when Eva and I were
married. He'd have been a great help. I'd have built him a house
by the cove. And that's queer.

Next day, they all went out in the car for a picnic, and I stayed
home, reading my novel. I read it all through— and there was
nothing there. I'd tried to make the heroine like Eva, but even
that hadn't worked. Sometimes you get a novelty like that— it
looks like a world-beater till you get it into production. And
then, you know you've just got to cut your losses. Well, this was
the same proposition.

343

Stephen Vincent Benet

So I took it down to the furnace and watched it burn. It takes
quite a while to burn four hundred sheets of paper in a cold
furnace. You'd be surprised.

On my way back, I passed through the kitchen where Serena
was. We looked at each other and she put her hand on the bread-
knife.

"Pll like to see you burning in hell, Serena," I said. I'd always
wanted to say that. Then I went upstairs, feeling her eyes on
my back like the point of the bread-knife.

When I lay down on the bed, I knew that something was fin-
ished. It wasn't only Eva or the novel. I guess it was what you
call youth. Well, we've all got to lose it, but generally it just
fades out.

I lay there a long time, not sleeping, not thinking. And I heard
:hem coming back and, after a while, the door opened gently
and I knew it was Eva. But my eyes were shut and I didn't make
a move. So, after another while, she went away.

There isn't much else to tell. Furfew settled everything up—
don't tell me Southerners can't move fast when they want to—
and the packers came and four days later they all started back
for Chantry in the car. I guess he wasn't taking any chances, but
he needn't have worried. I knew it was up. Even hearing Cousin
Belle had "come around" didn't excite me. I was past that.

Eva kissed me good-by— they all did, for that matter— the
mother and the three sisters. They were sort of gay and excited,
thinking of the motor-trip and getting back. To look at them,
you wouldn't have said they'd ever seen a bill-collector. Well,
that was the way they were.

"Don't write," I said to Eva. "Don't write, Mrs. Lochinvar."

She puckered her brows as she did when she was really puzzled.

"Why, honey, of co'se I'll write," she said. "Why wouldn't I
write you, honey?"

I am sure she did, too. I can see the shape of the letters. But I
never got them because I never left an address.

The person who was utterly dumbfounded was Mr. Budd. We
camped in the house for a week, getting our own meals and
sleeping under overcoats— the lease wasn't up till the first and
Furfew had made an arrangement with the owner. And Mr. Budd
couldn't get over it.

"I always knew they were crazy," he said. "But I'll never get

344

Glamour

such cooking again." I could see him looking into a future of
boarding-houses. "You're young/' he said. "You can eat anything.
But when a man gets my age — "

He was wrong, though. I wasn't young. If I had been, I
wouldn't have spent that week figuring out three novelties. Two
of them were duds, but the third was Jiggety Jane. YouVe seen
her— the little dancing doll that went all over the country when
people were doing the Charleston. I made the face like Serena's at
first, but it looked too lifelike, so we changed the face. The other
people made most of the money, but I didn't care. I never liked
the darn thing anyway. And it gave me a chance to start on
my own.

They couldn't stop me after that. You're harder to stop, once
you get rid of your youth. No, I don't think it was ironic or any
of those things. You don't, outside of a book. There wasn't any
connection between the two matters.

That fall I met Marian and we got married a year later. She's
got a lot of sense, that girl, and irs worked out fine. Maybe we
did have the children a little quick, but she'd always wanted
children. When you've got children and a home, you've got
something to keep you steady. And, if she gets a kick out of
reading love stories, let her. So I don't have to.

In a book, I'd have run across Eva, or seen Furfew's name in a
paper. But that's never happened and I suppose it never will. I
imagine they're all still in Chantry, and Chantry's one of those
places that never gets in the news. The only thing I can't imagine
is any of them being dead.

I wouldn't mind seeing Furfew again, for that matter. As I
say, I liked the man. The only thing I hold against him is his
moving them back, that way, before the lease was up. It was all
right and he had his reasons. But they had two weeks left— two
weeks till the first. And that would just have finished the year.

And when I get to sleep nowadays, Marian's there in the next
bed, so that's all right, too. I've only tried to go back to the river
plantation once, after a convention in Chicago when I was pretty
well lit. And then, I couldn't do it. I was standing on the other
side of the river and I could see the house across the water. Just
the way it always was, but it didn't look lived in. At least nobody
came to the window— nobody came out.

345

NO VISITORS

When the man in the bed woke up, it was early in the after-
noon. He had learned, some weeks before, that it was a good
thing, when you woke up, to hold yourself perfectly still for a
moment, until you were wide awake. In that way you wouldn't
make an unexpected movement and the pain, if any, wouldn't
jump at you. It was the jumping at you that mattered— if you
merely lay still and let it seep into you, you could stand it quite
nobly and heroically, even if no one else were around. But this
afternoon there was nothing— just a 'little whisper, a little rem-
iniscence—nothing real. Just enough to make you conscious that
there had been a great deal of it, once. It was wonderful.

"Boy!" said John Blagden to himself. "You're going to get
well. Do you know it? You're going to be O.K."

He sat up a little higher in bed and listened to the sounds of
Floor 7. The radio was on as usual, next door, at "No Visitors,"
muted and throbbing— the old guy across the hall was getting a
different program. "Now, Lucy Lee, don't you worry— we'll get
them cows back for you." It was a little loud, but John Blagden
didn't mind. The old guy was just a mild heart case— let him
amuse himself. When you'd had a McWhirter, with adhesions,
you could afford to be generous to people like that.

As he often did, when he waked up, he had a sense of the
whole big mechanism of the hospital, cut off from the rest of
the world, yet self-sufficient, like a boat or a train. That was a
hang-over from the dreams after the operation. But it made an
amount of sense. There was a routine, with fixed stops, and you
saw a great deal of people you would probably never see again.
Sometimes you didn't even see them— just knew them as you
knew his neighbor, No Visitors, from a card stuck in a door and
a radio heard through the wall. Nevertheless, he had been able
to build up a pretty good picture of his neighbor. She was small
and faded and whmy, and she put on a bright pink bed jacket
before the doctor came. She didn't like Orson Welles, but she
just loved Nelson Eddy and, though she complained about the
food, she didn't want to die. He wondered if she had any children
—there was probably a toothy, successful son somewhere. The
grandchildren weren't brought to see her, because she'd cry at

346

No Visitors

them. But the son sent flowers on Monday, and she talked to
the nurses about him. Yes, that would be it. Afterwards, when
it was over, the marcelled daughter-in-law would talk about
mother's illness to her friends, with a proprietary pride. "Ed had
everything possible done— you know how generous Ed is!" No,
he couldn't really like No Visitors. But it must be tough, being
No Visitors, day after day.

He could do with a cigarette. When he stretched his arm for
it, the shadow of pain increased by a fraction, but that had no
significance. He lit the cigarette cautiously and inhaled. For the
first time, it tasted right, not like hay and ether. He drew the
smoke all the way inside him— inside his body that had been sick
and was getting well.

"Have a nice nap?" said the nurse, coming in. "That's a good
boy."

She smiled, professionally, and put cold fingers on his wrist,
glancing at her watch. Some of their hands were warm and some
were cold, but they were all nice girls, except for the one night
nurse who had said she had no orders to give him the hypo, that
time. He didn't even know what she looked like, but he had
hated her for a long while. Now, it seemed silly to have hated her
-^indeed, silly to have hated anybody. Pm Tiny Tim, himself and
in person, he thought. But I don't mind.

"How is it outside?" he said.

"It's cold," said the nurse, "but I like it cold. I'm from Ver-
mont. A lot of the girls don't like it, but I do. Don't you want the
bed up— you'll want to read your book, I guess."

She went to work, smoothly and efficiently, fixing the pillows,
cranking the bed with the little crank, while he thought about
her being from Vermont. As she bent to lift hi